


the bittersweet between my teeth

by alaynes



Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Character Death, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Reincarnation, Time Loop, the character death is Mostly connected to the time travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 20:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 63,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6534436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alaynes/pseuds/alaynes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Neil Josten is a Time Jumper, and everywhere he goes he keeps seeing one man.</p><p>  <i>Neil's throat dried; the sound of keys rang in his ears, but so did his voice.</i><br/><i>Andrew Minyard stared back at him, expression inscrutable.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tell me how anybody thinks under this condition so

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to [coldsaturn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldsaturn/pseuds/Coldsaturn) for the beta! I don't know what I'd have done without you.
> 
> Title lyrics from The Naked and Famous' [Young Blood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YuSg4mts9E)  
> Chapter title lyrics come from [Dark Blue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mizK9xhTf1E) by Jack's Mannequin

**New York City, 1956**

When Neil landed, he was in a gloomy back alley, half-illuminated by distant lights. His head was spinning, and he could still hear the jangling of keys as though he had brought them with him to this time, this place. He steadied himself with one hand on the wall behind him, clenched his fingers into it like he could hold himself here with this tenuous grip.

Seconds passed, but Neil couldn't do much more than stand with the wall as support and breathe heavily. Once the echo of _stay_ had vanished, Neil took a long look around himself. The alley was dark, narrow and stacked with crates of some sort. In this light, he couldn't see what occupied those crates, but he could smell it. His mind, as always, provided the knowledge: mid-twentieth century New York. He waved away the details he didn't need, and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with smoke and mud. When he was rooted in the _now_ , Neil pushed away from the wall and began to make his way toward the open street.

After the quiet of the century he had spent the last weeks in, New York felt like chaos to his senses. The street was filled with bright cars in reds and blues and yellows, low music emanating from a rolled down window or two. The road was relatively empty, but it felt _alive_ , and Neil spent a moment simply watching the life of it. When he was finally reminded of his hunger by a sharp pang in his stomach, he turned to face the shops.

The first place his eyes landed on was a small bar, _Fir Tavern_ , the one he had apparently been in the back of. Through the window he could make out a few small tables with groups of people, old and young, clustered around them. If h listened carefully, he could almost make out some kind of music. From out here, it looked warm, inviting.

He reached into his pockets and grimaced at the measly five dollars that emerged, but entered the bar all the same. At the very least, he could buy one drink before he stumbled away to find a park bench to sleep on. By morning, he would be gone from here.

He pushed into the bar, letting the comfortable warmth of the inside relax him a little. The bright, artificial lights, an old jukebox playing an unknown tune, the low murmur of the crowd, all of them injected more life into Neil, pulling away his slouch as he made his way over to the counter. With one hand fisted around the coins in his pocket, he settled onto an old stool, not looking toward the man seated next to him.

It was evidently a busy night; the bartender, a tall man with a harried look about him gave Neil an apologetic smile from the other side of the bar as he poured some kind of drink. Neil nodded, and turned to observe the large sign announcing the prices of drinks and _Tonight's Special: White Lady_. Neil was glad to see that all the drinks were all for well under a dollar each; he had never stopped in a pub in this era before, and he hadn't been certain it would be this cheap. Neil needed to eat more than he wanted to drink, though, so he ordered a cheap rum and some potato chips when the bartender reached him.

"It'll be a few minutes, if you're up to the wait."

Neil offered a quiet shrug in return and paid him a dollar, now immeasurably glad he had kept the coins in these trousers. He was too exhausted to jump somewhere British money would help him. He was getting more than a few odd looks for the anachronistic clothing, the mud-stains at the bottom of his trousers, but no one would say anything, he knew from experience.

Neil placed his elbows on the counter and leaned his head on his forearms, breathing in the era, the time. He was done with 1812— _finished_. He would never return, he couldn't. He didn't have anything to support him in 1956 yet, but he could steal, borrow,  _something_ if he wanted to stay, and if in the morning he chose to go and never come back, he would find somewhere else. But not, _never_ 1812\. Not England, not Winsford. Neil didn't have the strength to return.

As though summoned by the very thought, Neil could hear it again—the ghost of keys jangling together, like a ringing in his ears. A lie, but colored true by his haunted, ruined mind. He winced, resisting the urge to press his hands to his ears, resisting the _memory_ of it, of him.

A clear voice cut through the keys. "Your chips."

Neil raised his head, suddenly endlessly weary. There was a clock in his mind, never stopping its ticking. Neil only ever had to think about it to know how exactly how old he was, how many years and minutes and seconds he had spent being miserably, _desperately_ alive. He knew that right now he was nineteen years old, seven thousand one hundred and two days, one hundred seventy thousand four hundred and sixty four hours old—but for a moment, he felt as though he was a thousand, as though all the timelines in his mind had combined to make him ancient and ageless.

He looked up to see a second bartender, looking plainly at him, holding a plate of chips to him. Neil's throat dried; the sound of keys rang in his ears, but so did _his_ voice.

Andrew Minyard stared back at him, expression inscrutable.

 

—

 

**_Pasadena, 2000_ **

_The first time Nathaniel tried Jumping long-distance, he was seven years old._

_They were learning about earthquakes in school, and his Geography teacher said that there had been a small one in California a few weeks ago, and Nathaniel decided with all the bravery he had that he wanted to see an earthquake. After all, it was only a small one. So late that night, after he was supposed to be asleep, Nathaniel stuffed his empty blanket with two pillows and climbed out of bed. Quietly, to be sure no one would hear him or come to check on him, he changed out of his pajamas and into everyday clothes. He wasn't sure if he should take something with him, like a table to hide under like his teacher had said to if there was an earthquake, but decided against it in the end—after all, this was his first big Jump._

_And then, trembling just a little with the anticipation of it, he snapped his fingers._

_When he landed, he knew he wasn't in Baltimore anymore, as it was really warm, and there was no snow. California was warm, he knew that, which meant he must have been in the right place. He looked around, wondering where the earthquake was happening, and would he feel it?_

_Nathaniel had landed in the middle of a residential area, and all around him were small one- and two-storied houses. It was clearly late in the night, as most of the lights were turned off, with the exception of one house two doors away. Nathaniel needed to make sure he was in the right place for the earthquake, which had been in—in—_ well _. It had been in some city that started with P, and he would remember the name once he heard it, he was sure._

_He hoped he was in the right place. He had a beating waiting for him at home if anyone found out he was missing, and he really wanted to see this earthquake. It would make up for anything else._

_When he got closer to the house, he saw a small boy of around his age hanging around the side of the house. He frowned when Nathaniel approached, but didn't shoo him away, so he went right up to his fence and smiled._

_"Who are you?" the boy asked in a whisper._

_"I'm Nathaniel. What city are we in? I wanted to see the earthquake."_

_The boy made a face, like he thought Nathaniel was an idiot. "The earthquake isn't_ here _, it's in Indonesia. And it was last week."_

_Nathaniel frowned at this. His teacher had talked about an earthquake in Indonesia, too, but that was a big one, over seven on the earthquake scale—and it was at least a month before the one in California. "No, we learned about it in school today. I wanted to see it—what city are we in, anyway?"_

_"Pasadena. How did you get here on your own? Are you a Jumper?" This was asked with a kind of indignation that made Nathaniel suddenly uncomfortable. He wasn't supposed to show off that he was a Jumper—his mother said it was dangerous, both Jumping and letting people know that he was a Jumper, and his father said it was a secret and that Nathaniel ought to listen to him if he knew what was good for him._

_"None of your business," he snapped, still whispering. The boy was smaller than him by an inch or two, but he didn't look at all scared of him. Nathaniel didn't usually like for people to be scared of him, because he wanted to have friends, too, and most of the boys in school stayed away from him—but just now he had been trying to scare him, just a little. So he wouldn't ask about Jumping. Apparently it hadn't worked. "What's your name?" he asked, to distract the boy from it._

_"Andrew. And there's no earthquake here, so you can go now," he said, and turned away._

_Nathaniel made a noise of frustration, which stopped Andrew in his step. "I really wanted to see the earthquake. What—what year is it?"_

_Andrew turned back around to face him and glared at him. Nathaniel knew it had been stupid to ask what year it was, because only a Jumper wouldn't know_ that _. But he had to know for sure._

_"2000."_

_Nathaniel's face fell. He had overshot, and gone back three years instead of one month, and he had probably gotten the wrong place, too. Pasadena didn't sound like the name of the earthquake place, even if it_ did _start with a P._

 _Andrew seemed to take pity on him. "You just need to improve your aim," he said, and when Nathaniel raised his head to insist that he_ wasn't _a Jumper, even if Andrew definitely knew by now that he was, he continued, "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone your secret."_

_Nathaniel watched him for a second. He was looking at him with no hesitation, and his arms were crossed across his chest. This was a good promise, he could tell. It sounded even more solemn in the hushed whispers in which they were talking, and Nathaniel thought a whispered promise was probably more meaningful than a real one._

_"Thank you," he whispered back. "What are you doing out here, anyway?"_

_"Jonah was trying to make all the kids have some of the beer he stole. I didn't want it, so I'm hiding out here until it's over. I'm not supposed to be out of bed."_

_Nathaniel nodded. Beer was bad, his mother had said once or twice. His father liked it, though. "I won't tell anyone that you were out of bed." Andrew rolled his eyes, which Nathaniel thought was rude of him, considering Nathaniel knew how not-good it was to be caught outside after bedtime. "I have to go," he said abruptly. Andrew nodded._

_"Good luck with your earthquake," he said._

_Nathaniel felt better toward him for that. "Good luck not getting caught," he said, and Jumped back home._

 

—

 

**Charleston, 2013**

In the year that was meant to be his present, Neil kept an apartment in Charleston. It was a small place he had bought with a chunk of his money a few decades ago in what the law would call a blatant abuse of his Jumper status—but Neil was unregistered, so no one knew—and he used it as a safehouse of sorts. It was a place he rarely visited; one of the first things his mother had drilled into his mind when on the run was that going to one place often was unsafe, so Neil only used the apartment for emergencies.

This, right now, classified as an emergency.

After spotting Andrew at the bar, Neil was rendered incapable of eating or drinking. To cover his staring, he took his drink and poured it down his throat, not tasting a drop, not even feeling the pleasant burn down his throat that usually accompanied sour alcohol. Once the alcohol was consumed, he abandoned his plate of chips and pushed away from the counter. He couldn't stop seeing Andrew in his arms, covered in mud, couldn't unsee the boy on the rock who had _smiled_ , couldn't stop hearing his voice.

 _Keys_.

He was out in the cold New York air in seconds, and then, uncaring who saw, he snapped his fingers and aimed for Charleston.

Neil landed in an apartment painted blue in the early morning light, and sank down backward onto the ground. He pressed his hands into his eyelids, tried to push away the image of Andrew in the boat, Andrew looking at Neil with no recognition, Andrew's eyes dimming, _Andrew Andrew Andrew_ with the bright colors that peppered his vision. It didn't work.

The adrenaline burst that seeing him had sent through Neil wore off in minutes, and what remained was the alcohol in his bloodstream combined with a low level of food and exhaustion from Jumping. Getting off the floor felt like too much effort, so he sat there, back to the wall and eyes closed—careless, blind, easy target—

One day Neil would find a way to undo this. One day, one day.

 

—

 

**_Baltimore, 2005_ **

_Nathaniel was eight years old when his mother took him and ran._

_He remembered lying in bed, uncomfortably awake. His parents were arguing downstairs, and now he knew to be wary when that happened. The morning after was never too bad, because his mother would be quiet in her anger and his father would have disappeared—asleep or out causing havoc—but the next evening would always be terrible. No one in his family had good tempers, and when his father's was raised it usually stayed raised for a while, sometimes as long as two days. That was the time Nathaniel had to be most careful of what he said, what he did._

_Tonight, his mother had sent him upstairs immediately after dinner, and he had known it was going to be bad, but Nathaniel knew there was nothing he could do about it. Trying to stop them from arguing was impossible. Mom said all the time that she would protect Nathaniel but he had to listen to her, and that meant going to bed and making no noise when she said 'go to bed and don't make noise'. When he was smaller, he used to be able to fall asleep even through the noise of the shouting and sometimes things crashing and breaking._

_He couldn't fall asleep now._

_It was nine minutes and forty-five seconds past midnight (EST) when he heard the door bang open and shut, and after one more loud scream, it was silent. He knew his father wouldn't come back for some time yet, and the shouting was over. He didn't want the morning to be here, because the morning meant school and school meant his day would fly by until it was_ evening— _but he couldn't be awake when his mother came to check._

_When the door creaked open twenty-four minutes later, he was still awake, but he screwed his eyes shut and tried to breathe heavily so his mother wouldn't notice. But instead of silently looking in and leaving, as she usually did, his mom came to his bed and shook him._

_"Nathaniel. Wake up!"_

_This was new. Nathaniel opened one bleary eye, pretending to have just woken up. "Mom?" he whispered, trying to look sleepy._

_"Come on, we have to go."_

_He sat up, confused, but she was already moving away and pulling open a drawer. She emptied it into a bag that was already half-full, and he could see something like more clothes and what looked like money inside it. What was she_ doing _?_

_His mother muttered to herself as she worked, zipping the bag up and then re-opening it, removing half the things she had put in. Then she came to him, gave him a stern look—he tried to stand as tall as he was—and nodded. "It will have to do. Come on, hold my hand tight," she said. He frowned, not sure what she was doing, but took her free arm, gripping it tight. They were getting ready to go somewhere, but she had stopped moving, and he frowned. She almost looked like—_

_"Where are we going?" he asked, but before he could finish it she had snapped._

_Nathaniel had not known his mother was a Jumper._

 

—

 

**Charleston, 2013**

When Neil awoke, he felt no more relaxed than before, but it was light outside and his internal clock said _six hours_. With some effort, he pushed himself off the ground and walked slowly to the bathroom to wash up.

The apartment in Charleston was stocked for emergencies. It had cobbled-together first aid kits, mostly comprising of alcohol and bandages. Guns, in case he needed them. It had a well-stocked pantry of non-perishables (stolen), stacks of money ( _borrowed_ ), a bed (bought) and a few spare clothes (stolen). It was a perfect place for Neil to hide for a few days, but Neil couldn't remember the last time he had been here. Before Lorelei, probably, which meant _months_. Not a long time for a Jumper, maybe, but a long time to him, who never spent more than a few weeks in once place, unless—

The apartment also gave him the added benefit of not containing a single thing that might remind him of Andrew. It was from the days after Neil's mother was caught, when the only thing on his mind was survival, before he had been hooked into this endless spiral of time.

The last year or more had made Neil classify his life into _before Andrew_ and _after Andrew_ , and this apartment was definitely _before_. A true safe place.

After washing up, Neil moved to the bedroom, pulled open a can of beans, and began digging through it with a plastic fork. The beans were over-sweet and chewy, but it was food, and Neil had last eaten over forty-eight hours ago. After finishing it off, he changed into one of his spare outfits for this century, jeans and a hoodie, took a small wad of cash and stuffed it into his pockets, then left the building.

If the 1950s had been noisy and bright, then 2013 was much more so. This was Neil's time—this was the year he might be living in now, if he hadn't run away all those years ago, if he wasn't a Jumper. The apartment didn't show it, frozen in time as it had been in 1944 when he bought it, a dusty deep maroon carpet over linoleum floors; a peeling striped blue wallpaper; built-in blond wood shelves; no-longer-shiny black and white tiles in the tiny bathroom; a sofa with a faded, somewhat hideous, floral cover. It felt like something out of a magazine. Maybe, if he hadn't bought it, it might have been.

But outside the apartment, it was a different world. A world far enough away from the one he had left that he could be free from its memories, for just a few minutes.

It took two minutes for Neil to reach the main street from his apartment, and already he couldn't help but feel a touch overwhelmed by the crowd, the noise. It was midmorning, and while this should mean that all the office-workers were at work and all the students in school, the streets were buzzing with activity. The road was packed with cars barely moving, horns blaring from time to time. The sidewalks were just as busy in foot-traffic, and Neil stuck to the slow side, keeping his hands in his pockets but his head up.

He looked around, thinking somewhat wistfully that it would be _nice_ to live here, for once—to let himself crack, to stay in the present instead of hiding in remote locations in the past, to not get swept up in time. He could be a real person, have a home that wasn't a hideout, maybe get a job (maybe not, for who would employ _Neil_?), stay in one time and place. The stationary life wasn't for him, he didn't think, but he didn't have to be jumping around all the time.

Once upon a time, Neil had known other Jumpers. Some were his father's friends, some were children in school, some he met through his mother's many contacts. None of them were immobile; it was not in a Jumper's blood to _stay put_ , but most of them had lives. They traveled, of course. They saw the world, they saw history while it happened. Some of them were even registered with the UTJO, held in place by the organization's endless rules and regulations, but legal. None of them lived like Neil did. He barely existed, floating from period to period, place to place. Two weeks here, three days there, staying only if there was something to catch his attention. The present, _his_ present in another timeline, was the time he visited the least. Maryland? Never.

It was a hollow dream to want to build a life for himself in the present, because Neil would never do it. His mother's instructions had been too clear, too repetitive to be forgotten, and now he had lived too long like this to know how to do it any other way.

Even as a shell of a hope, though, it was not painful to think about, because it was so impossible. So Neil walked through the streets and thought about driving _that_ car to work, or wearing _those_ clothes, or living in _that_ building. It was almost nice, an exercise in harmless, if futile, dreaming. He purchased wurst from a food truck, and stole a newspaper as he ate it. With the paper rolled up in his hand, he walked down the crowded street for a few more minutes, found an ice-cream stall and decided he deserved it, then made his way back to his apartment with a small tub of ice-cream in hand.

Once back, he put the ice-cream aside for later and settled onto his sofa (ignoring the cloud of dust that rose as he did) with the paper.

A Jumper was meant to keep track of the changes in his present, in his timeline—most Jumpers did, as they had family, friends, emotional and physical investments in their timeline. Neil had none of these things, and so did not.

When his mother had been alive, she had insisted on keeping up with developments in the future. In between getting _some kind of education_ in various countries in the late 1980s and hiding for weeks on end in fifteenth century Romania, they had popped into their present times. His mother would skim the headlines, then study political and legal changes, anything related to Jumpers, and anything related to Neil's father or the Wesninskis. Sometimes, when she felt sentimental, she would even look at anything related to her own family, the Hatfords.

There were many things he had stopped doing after his mother died; this was just one more. For months he had been nothing more than a ship unmoored, drifting in the endless sea that was time with no destination (and no passengers).

Then, of course, he had met Andrew.

He opened the newspaper to study recent developments, but there was nothing he could see as being important to him. All laws related to Jumpers were so strongly established in the country's, and the world's, legal code, that any change was always slow and took years to work through. One would think time travelers were more capable of advancing laws, but it was impossible—bureaucracy at its _best_ , as his mother had said once. The only thing he found about Jumpers was an article about new information discovered by a Jumper which debated on a changed timeline being responsible for the new facts, but didn't draw any solid conclusions.

The political system was so far beyond Neil's scope of knowledge that after skimming the headlines (the UN inspecting something in Syria, a strike in Colombia, the UTJO announcing renewed ties with the Pope, attacks in Iraq, the NSA spying on global citizens, a minister resigning because of sexual harassment claims), he simply took to turning pages without reading more than a word or two of the headlines.

He paused for a second on the sports page where an article near the bottom showed a picture of a large Exy court in orange and white, the title _Foxes Lose to Jackals_ and a short description of the first match of the South Carolinian Class I Exy Team, the Palmetto State Foxes', season. This one he read, blinking at the somewhat caustic article insulting the team roster—only 10 players, and no one of any note—which ended with high hopes for the USC Columbia match next week.

Exy was one of those things that had once made Neil almost want to come live in the present. It was a new sport, only thirty years old, and even then it had been played mostly in the streets of Japan, nothing like it was today. He had played it once or twice when he was younger, when he was allowed, but after they began running it was pointless to even wish for it. His mother didn't like him playing Exy, and coming to the present, or close to it, was dangerous—so they stayed away. Eventually, his childhood obsession had worn off.

It was a shame, really. His memory of his childhood years was not the best, but he thought he hadn't been too bad.

 

—

 

**_Los Angeles, 1942_ **

_Alex clenched his jaw as he dabbed cotton to the wound on his face, wincing just a little at burn of the alcohol. It was a small wound, got from landing in the wrong place, and it was the first sign of his mother's exhaustion. "Alex," she hissed, and he sighed, nodded. Abandoning the cotton ball in the corner of the sink, he washed his face instead. When it came up in the mirror, he looked at his dyed hair and the softening grime on his face and decided that he didn't really look like an Alex._

_When he had to choose a name for himself, he would find something a lot more suitable. Alex was a name for pretty boys with happy families whose parents wanted to give him some distinguished name—Alexander, for_ the Great _, and then because it was too long and too distinguished, shortened to simply Alex. It was a terrible name for him._

_"Alex, hurry up," she snapped again, and he dried his face and made to comply. When he gave her his arm, she looked sharply up at his wound, and then gripped his hand so tight it felt like she was trying to break it off._

_The Jumping was beginning to catch up to his mother._

_It wouldn't be obvious to anyone who wasn't Alex, who hadn't spent years and years with no one but her by his side. In the last three days, they had been in six different times and places, and it was beginning to wear on her. On the first day, when she insisted that they couldn't stay in Cincinnati any longer, he had said nothing—on the second, when after only three hours in Udaipur she said that they had to_ leave _, he asked her why._

_They were being followed, his mother had insisted. Someone was catching up to them—and for all Alex's questions, she wouldn't tell him who. Maybe the answer was obvious to her, because Alex had no idea._

_The last one of his father's men that Alex had seen was three years ago, and in the time since he had come across no one trailing them. He had assumed it was because they had realized the pointlessness of their attempts; his mother was a skilled Jumper, and so was he. Finding them was difficult, to say the least—catching them before they escaped was nearly impossible. The three years between the last attack and now were more peaceful than the five before then. The longest time they spent anywhere was eight months in early 1900s Meißen, but they stayed in every place longer than a day or two. Madrid, Karachi, Saint Petersburg, Santiago, Baghdad, none of them for less than six months._

_At first it had felt like a holiday, compared to the blur of cities and times from before. Then Alex had grown used to it. They weren't being chased by anyone, and the most trouble they saw was for not knowing the local language well, though Alex knew many passably by now._

_And then, last week, his mother had returned from buying (but probably not_ buying _) groceries, and told him to take what he needed most, because it was time to say goodbye to 1902. The last three days were a mess, moving too fast for him to accustom himself to the change of time—his mother said he had gotten_ lazy _, complacent in the ease—mind bursting with London Istanbul Udaipur Houston Beijing, and now Cape Town. As they landed, Alex could see his mother's back bow considerably, as if she was holding the weight of all of time on her back. Maybe she was._

_"Maybe we should stay here for the night," he suggested warily, fully aware that if she disagreed he was going to be shouted at, another lecture about carelessness. It was his carelessness that had gotten them followed in the first place, this time, anyway, as she had been saying for the last two days. His hair hurt from where she had pulled on it, and his jaw ached with keeping quiet._

_"Don't be a fool. We can't stay long. We'll find something to eat, then go."_

_That meant him. Alex sighed and nodded, not ready to argue, and went foraging. He came back with tins of soup, and he was about to hand her hers when she clasped at his hand._

_"We have to leave._ Now _."_

_Alex hesitated, not sure he saw what she saw, or heard, or felt. She looked exhausted still, and he knew what Jumping too much could do to a person, had experienced it dozens of times when she trained him—anything to make him capable of aiming and landing wherever he wanted at split second. He paused. "Maybe I should Jump this time."_

_"Your aim isn't strong enough," she said, as though she hadn't spent years training him, making sure his aim was perfect to a point. Alex hadn't landed in the wrong place in years—but, of course, she never trusted him where it counted. "Come on." It was pointless to argue. He held onto her hand, and she Jumped._

_They landed into chaos._

_It was a mostly abandoned street, blocked by a building with part of its roof caved in. A small group of people stood in front of them, all of them visibly panicking, most staring up at the sky. Behind them, a car alarm was blaring. The sky was lit up with light, but he couldn't see what was actually going on. There was a fire somewhere, and smoke was all around them, in his nostrils and impeding his vision. Something huge was flying toward them out of the sky, and then Alex heard gunshots, and a shout, and—_

_No_.

_No no no no no no_

_He Jumped. He didn't know where he landed. His hand was clasped around his mother, but when they landed she still had a bullet hole in her back._

_He shook his head, put her on the ground, shook his head again. This couldn't be happening, this wasn't possible. They were nowhere, no one was there, it was just a random man, he couldn't have_ shot _her, she couldn't be_ dead— _he snapped his fingers, Jumped back in his own timeline, fifteen minutes. She grabbed his hand, said, "We have to go, now."_

_Alex tried to bring his voice under control. She was not dead yet. He was changing it even now._

_"You're too tired to Jump," he began, but she did it anyway. California. He snapped his fingers, but nothing happened, and then there were gunshots and a shout and—_

_Alex Jumped. "You're too tired to Jump," but this time he didn't wait, and when they landed. California. Gunshots. Snap, fifteen minutes, alley in Cape Town, snap, California, gunshots. Snap, an hour, Beijing, he took her hand and Jumped before Cape Town,_ anywhere but California anywhere but California anywhere but— _, California, gunshots. Snap. Still California. Snap, snap, Jump, Jump, Jump—Houston to California, London to California, back and back and back three days until she wasn't running yet, and Jump Jump Jump, back back back, California gunshots something-in-the-sky Jump 1902 Jakarta_ there's no one following us _six weeks_ you're being paranoid _forty-nine seconds_ I'm trying to keep you safe _eight hours_ you're making a mistake _snap_ what are you doing Alex _eleven days_ don't do this _Jump California Jump no no_ _no no no no_

 

—

 

**Rijeka, 1675**

Neil Jumped with no intention of going to Rijeka, thinking only of leaving the 21st century behind, but when he opened his eyes he was standing by a port he would never forget.

Even before the Port of Rijeka was made a free port in the eighteenth century (Neil had read more about it after his first visit there), it was a bustling place. Under Habsburg rule, Rijeka was a city protected from Ottoman incursions by high walls, a major Habsburg stronghold in Croatia. In the 1670s, while most of Croatia was under Ottoman rule, it became a place for those who wanted to escape it. It was a bright city, the waters of the Kvarner Gulf a vivid blue under the blazing Mediterranean sun. Boats of all sizes and types, both trade vessels and part of the Navy floated, anchored in place.

Neil landed in 1675, August, only weeks before Andrew's untimely death here. He couldn't be sure if today was one of the days he had been here, however—those few months with Andrew here were a blur of emotion, and he had spent weeks with his strongest sense, his sense of _time_ , dulled. Croatia was only the second time Neil had met him, and he had been a lost creature, half in-love with another version of him still and ready to do anything, _anything_ , to keep him.

It was before he had realized the futility of trying.

Today _was_. Neil saw a familiar blond head sitting by the water, speaking quietly to a younger Neil, and rushed to find cover where he wouldn't be seen by them, far from where they sat but not so far he couldn't see them.

It was strange, seeing his own face here. He had never crossed into his own timeline before. One of the first things a Jumper learned, if they were trained in any official way, was that crossing into one's own timeline was _dangerous_. Even those who weren't trained were usually smart enough to assume it was, and Neil had been, as a child. He knew what would happen if he got too close: he would accidentally erase his presence from there, and the past him would fade away and become one with his current body—he would change his timeline (and Andrew's) _by mistake_. And then, as time worked to correct itself, it would remove his memories of all the lives and timelines he had spent with him, of everything since.

It would take away any foreknowledge, because knowledge of the future was even more dangerous than crossing into one's own timeline, but it would also take away all the heartbreak.

For a second, as he watched himself talking almost _enthusiastically_ to Andrew about _something_ , he was tempted. He could undo it all, and all it would take was twenty steps closer. No Winsford, no India—he would have only met Andrew once before, and _maybe_ , just maybe if he tried, he could hold onto his true memories for long enough to keep this one alive. He could stay here, ensure his life, and keep it this way.

Now _that_ was a dream—but not the harmless kind, not like his present was. This one hurt, because he _couldn't do it_. For all that seeing Andrew over and over and over hurt him, destroyed him even, he would be erasing too much. _Lorelei_. He didn't know if he had the strength to become the boy in front of him, who was amazed to simply meet Andrew again, who was still mourning his mother a little.

Neil watched them talk for a few more minutes, wondering if this was before or after Neil had convinced Andrew to sign his own death warrant. Andrew was speaking to him, which meant it was probably before; after, he had spent weeks being furious at Neil for trying to trap him, and likely wouldn't have said a word to him. The only time they had spent together then was in the quiet, in his dark rooms pressed against the wall or the floor or his uncomfortable sack of a bed, their mouths occupied with something altogether different. Andrew had said, over and over and over, in broken Hungarian so Neil could understand, _I hate you_ and _Your plan is going to kill us both_ and then _If this doesn't work, I'll kill you myself._

Neil had only smiled, because Andrew would not have been kissing him if he really hated him, and because he had been so certain that his plan was better—after all, it was _informed_.

When Neil first met Andrew in Rijeka, Andrew was a refugee seeking safety from the Ottoman empire, making sure he was not one of the slaves they took from Hungary. He had met Neil with more distrust than anything else, but that had worn away with time and the certainty that Neil was not connected to anything Ottoman, that he was just another stranger living in Croatia.

Months after they met—months of Neil Jumping back and forth and trying and trying to find Andrew's name somewhere, _anywhere,_ something to tell him why he had run into the same man twice in two different centuries after seeing the first _die—_ Andrew confided in him his plan: through the odd jobs he was taking for anyone who would offer, he was going to save enough to gain passage on a boat going to Italy, where he would be removed from the danger of slavery, if nothing else. Sicily had been free for hundreds of years, and while Rijeka was free, it was too close to the rest of Croatia, meaning _not safe enough_. The distance of the sea would be better protection than this was.

Except Neil knew about the plague that had struck the place a few years ago, was certain of the current and future violent state. The Kingdom of Naples, or Sicily, was just as dangerous then as Croatia. And Neil would do _anything_ to keep him alive, even change his mind.

It took time and effort, but eventually Andrew had agreed to Neil's _better_ plan: to escape to the north instead, not _wait_ to make enough money to take a boat. They could go to Austria, or Germany, which were both far, _far_ removed from Ottoman control, and it was better than waiting. Andrew didn't like the idea that Neil was taking control for him, but Neil persisted, and eventually Andrew saw sense.

In the weeks after he hatched his plan, Neil stopped Jumping altogether. He was keeping Andrew alive, and he was too absorbed in him to even think of leaving. To leave was to risk aiming poorly and landing sometime else. To stay away too long was to risk losing his trust, and that was the one thing he never wanted to lose. So instead he stayed, appearing at Andrew's lodgings and meeting him at the port, trying and trying and trying to convince him. And then, when he agreed, when he finally said "I still hate you, but your plan is not terrible", when he said "Come with me", Neil agreed—delighted, relieved.

And they had run, and on the way north past Čabar, they had come across a Janissary _orta_ , the very slaves Andrew had escaped becoming, and they had captured him and killed him before Neil's eyes.

Now, he looked away as he saw the Andrew and Neil from then rise to go somewhere, their conversation not ceasing even as they walked away from the port and toward the walls of the city. Neil's heart gave a _pang_ , because it wasn't fair, it wasn't _fair—_

He spent days or weeks or months after that in Bari, torturing himself, always on the verge of Jumping back and simply erasing the last few months, making it so he never met Andrew, never convinced him to go north, never killed him. But he couldn't do it, _of course_ not—couldn't then as he couldn't now. Selfishly, guiltily, he had held on to the memory of the in-between, because he couldn't let it go. And he was still doing the exact same thing.

 

—

 

**_Berlin, 1845_ **

_The exhaustion of spending three days awake was beginning to wear him down, but there was no solution for it._

_It had been a long few weeks of struggling with his Korean in Suwon, little food staying in his stomach, barely managing sleep in his hotel room, too exhausted to Jump in case he landed wrong. His room in the hotel was comfortable, lavish, even. He had spent nearly 700,000 won simply trying to earn himself some sleep, and if that came with a minibar to help him along, all the better. And yet, none of it—not the alcohol, not the comfort of a real, expensive bed—none of it had helped him actually get what he wanted the most: rest, or reprieve, one of those things._

_It had been months (the exact number eluded him, which was a sign of his exhaustion, if anything) since the incident, and yet those few hours of Jumping back and forth haunted his dreams. None of them were very clear—a blessing perhaps—but the blurred images he saw, the accompanying senses, all made for his own personal horrors. It wasn't much: the sight of the blazing sky, the smell of smoke, the sound of a gunshot, the sense of doom growing on him, the certainty that this time he would fix it._

_Worse than the nightmares: he was jittery like he had never been before, a single sight or sound or smell setting him off. In Quito, the sound of a car backfiring; in Helsinki, fireworks lighting up the sky; in Charleston, barbecue smoke. They all set his teeth on edge, had him shaking and unable to breathe. And on and on and on—peace eluded him, he had trouble keeping all but the lightest and simplest foods down, and sleep was a distant concept. He was warier than his mother had been for those three days, in the first timeline, and it was making everything worse. He was exhausted, but more importantly, he was afraid to Jump, because he might land underwater, might land with half his body aboveground, might land a thousand feet in the air._

_But he was out of options. He needed to get away from here—his Korean was growing rustier by the second instead of the other way around, and after walking into a man smoking in a lavatory and having a panic attack yesterday, the feeling that he needed to get away was growing on him._

_After the hotel-provided breakfast, of which he could only eat plain toast in any case, he checked out of the hotel, found a nearby restaurant, entered its restroom, and Jumped, no aim in mind—in any case, none of his planned locations would work out with him in this state. Anything aboveground and not-about-to-kill-him was good enough._

_He landed in a narrow street, relieved to at least be in no visible danger. He was somewhere in the mid-nineteenth century, Berlin, which was not bad. His clothes wouldn't fit in, but no one would ask, probably._

_He looked around, finding no one out. Maybe it was late. It was quiet, the world lit only by a few dim street lamps. He seemed to be in a residential area of some sort, with narrow but tall buildings, most of the windows shut. He kept going until the street opened up to a larger square, and finally the signs of people became visible. Watchmen in their uniforms and caps took long strides, clacking their spears against the ground every few steps. He avoided them and turned into another narrow street, wondering how far he would have to go to find somewhere he could rest. The watchmen meant he wouldn't be able to simply sleep on the road, as they would chase him away—or worse, question his clothes. He should have a few thalers in his pocket leftover from Prague, hopefully enough to buy shelter for the night, at least. He did not have the strength to Jump again._

_He felt a small surge of strength as he found a small boarding house, a tacked up sign by the door proclaiming boarders wanted—with some relief, he climbed in, squinting in the much-brighter light indoors. He found the innkeep, an old woman who looked at him with some pity as he fumbled in his pockets for the mostly-correct currency. He gave her a false name, paid more than was probably required, and stumbled upstairs to his room._

 

_The morning had him feeling more rested, if not entirely awake. The iron bed had been uncomfortable, and full of insects in the bedding; compared to Suwon, it was a terrible night. But the unfamiliar surroundings had, completely impossibly, helped him; he had managed to exhaustedly doze for a few hours in the cramped quarters, a fitful and uncomfortable sleep that only helped his awareness a little. When he got out of bed, he was certain that it was five forty-nine AM, and more certain that he could Jump away and back, if only to procure more money._

_He had done this dozens of times before. His mother had created stashes of currency in secret locations, most that only the two of them knew about, and when they selected a new place to go to, they took the currency in question. They traveled in vastly different time periods and too many countries to keep only dollars or euro with them. He wasn't sure of how and when she had collected most of the money, but he did remember the locations of all of them—a parting gift, of a sort._

_He rose to his feet surprisingly steady, memorized his location and date-time, and Jumped. Then, with enough thalers stuffed into tiny pouches that he wouldn't have trouble for a few weeks at least, he Jumped back to the boarding house room, and made his way downstairs._

_"Did you sleep well, sir?" a young maid asked politely as she led him to the kitchen. Breakfast was being served to those who had paid for it, and he was a little surprised to learn that he had. He must have been more exhausted last night than he remembered. He drummed his fingers on the table as he waited for his food, and racked his brains to try and remember the name he had given the woman last night. The name teetered at the edge of his mind, but evaded him, and he clamped his jaw together. The name he had used in Suwon was Jack, but he didn't want to keep it up. More importantly, changing his name overnight was suspicious._

_Fortunately, the owner seemed to be away, or asleep, and he was greeted instead by another woman, with wispy brown hair pulled back into a severe bun. She had a friendly face, and smiled as she introduced herself as Betsy Dobson._

_"You're the new boarder?" she asked in German, but with an accent startlingly not. His own was better, if more traditional to actual Germany than Prussia. "I'm afraid I don't know the details of your agreement with Abigail." Abigail—the woman from last night? It seemed the only logical answer. Hoping he remembered everything correctly, he explained that he was here for room and board, maybe a few weeks. He watched her for any change in expression, but she maintained her calm smile, and he decided that it must be a lie. No one liked a temporary tenant._

_"What's your name, dear?" she asked kindly, still peering into the large ledger through her lorgnettes._

_For a second, he was lost, and a sort of panic took over him, the way it had in every city before this: the belief that he had fucked up, that he had made a mistake so basic that he would be caught immediately, that he was useless and helpless without his mother. Then he remembered, and the panic receded, if only barely._

_"Neil," he said. "My name is Neil Josten."_

_She looked up from the ledger to smile at him, her expression holding something hidden. What the something else was, though, he didn't know. There was a knock on the kitchen door and two boys entered, drawing her attention. "Ah, yes. Boys, this is Mr. Neil Josten—he will be boarding with us for a few more days. Mr. Josten, meet Andrew and Aaron. They're boarders here as well—only one room away from you. If you need to ask for anything and can't find me or Abigail, they are the men to speak to."_

_Neil turned to look at them—they were twins, identical. They were short and blond, with keen eyes that made him immediately feel as though they held intelligence. One looked exhausted, and the other wore a curiously blank expression. There was no exhaustion on his face, but neither was there anything else. The only other difference was in their clothing: while the one closer to him was in rough and muddy worker's clothing, the other was in more formal wear, neat white shirt with a cravat tucked into a darker waistcoat, both a touch loose on his slight build._

_The one by the door nodded. "My honor to meet you, Mr. Josten. Call me Aaron." The other brother—Andrew took a seat, acknowledging Neil's introduction to him only with a nod. Neil looked at him for a second, waiting to see if there would be any response, then shrugged, turning back to Aaron._

_"Please," he said, "call me Neil."_


	2. i felt life and love and hope infested my bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Berlin, New York, and a rock in Germany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title lyrics from [Quiet as a Mouse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qSq3cEXOF0) by Margot and the Nuclear So and So's

**New York City, 1956**

Neil finally found the strength to return to New York after days of restless wandering, the questions of _where_ and _when_ he couldn't answer if asked. It was earlier in the evening when he came back, once again landing in the alley behind the Fir Tavern. It was, by his count, only three days since his appearance and disappearance from here, which meant Andrew should still be working at the bar—and it wouldn't be entirely strange for someone who, say, lived nearby, to reappear at a drinking spot in the vicinity.

He would have to think of a reason he had fled. Andrew was always observant, if not always ready to ask the questions he had in his mind.

The bar was emptier now than it had been that night, and he was somewhat relieved. Neil was calmer today than he had been then, in a different state of mind entirely, but he didn't know how a similar crowd, a similar atmosphere, would affect him. A downside of Jumping: déjà vu was powerful, and could be debilitating. He made his way to the counter as he had that day, biting down on his jaw as he saw Andrew manning it.

Neil waited, fiddling with the end of his sleeve. He was in more period-typical clothing now, in loose jeans he had bought from here and a comfortable pullover shirt, and wasn't covered in mud. It was too late for first impressions, which meant he would have to simply improve upon it.

_Or you could leave him alone_ , a low voice muttered in the back of his head. Neil pushed it aside, because even if he knew it was probably the better option for him, he couldn't do it.

"A sour rum," he said when Andrew approached him. This time he had proper currency, too, and he paid for the drink with a dollar coin, earning him raised eyebrows. He saw the flash of recognition in his eyes, but there was nothing else, just a nod of acknowledgement as Andrew turned to pour his drink.

Neil sipped quietly at the rum, keeping his eyes down, when the other bartender appeared. He seemed the chattier sort than Andrew was, at any rate, and the room was quiet. He stood in front of Neil with a bar towel in hand, wiping glasses and settling them back.

"You're the guy who did the runner last week," he began with, and Neil offered a curt nod. "I know it's none of my business, but I have to admit I'm curious. You looked like you'd seen a ghost." At this, Neil allowed the ghost of a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. He was right in more ways than Neil could tell. Andrew was determinedly not looking in their direction, but it didn't matter.

"Something like that," he muttered.

"Right-o," the barkeep said, all false cheer. "Since you tipped so well last time, I'll let you have some peace."

Neil looked up as Andrew passed by the man to reach for some kind of bottle behind him, keeping a careful, if small, distance between them. "I'm not sure I want peace," he said with a slow sip, considering.

"Plenty of it where you come from?"

Neil smiled. "Something like that," he repeated, because it was absolutely untrue. _Where he came from—_ whether that meant Winsford (the place he had Jumped here from) or 2013 (his present), neither were peaceful. His personal present was the center of a bloodbath; his father was known as the Butcher of Baltimore, a notorious and _terrifying_ criminal. He was the man Neil and his mother had spent years running from, the reason he lived nowhere and everywhere.

Winsford had given him no peace, either, but in a very different way—but that was something he didn't want to think about.

Neil blinked at this realization, keeping his eyes on his drink so no one could see his face. When had his father become less painful to think about than his own experiences? For as long as Neil could remember, his father had been the most frightening person he knew. He had been the monster looming in the distance, the reason he had grown up looking over his shoulder, jumping at his own shadow, wincing at his own reflection.

Thinking of it, he found that it had been a long time since he had tried to change his appearance, too. Neil had changed his appearance every few months when he was younger, first pushed by his mother to do it and later doing it of his own choice. Lighter or darker hair, colored contacts if they could get them.

When his mother had died, he had had green eyes and black hair, but he had abandoned the contacts in his desperate attempts to save her. He had only dyed his hair once after his mother's death. He had not had his natural color back in Rijeka, but _after_ —the black had faded, he had simply not bothered to dye it back.

It was a revelation. He already knew Andrew made him careless, but this was new. Maybe he didn't need to be as careful, though. No one was chasing him. He may not be running, but Neil would never stop looking over his shoulder. For the last many years, he had found nothing but memories following.

When he looked up, the other bartender was on the other side of the bar, serving a drink, and Andrew was watching him with as much curiosity as Andrew ever showed. Neil looked away, and finished his drink.

 

—

 

**_Berlin, 1845_ **

_Eleven days after his arrival in Berlin, Abigail asked him over dinner what he did._

_It was an answer Neil had prepared for; he had spent most of the last ten days pretending he was going to work, and exploring the city again. Berlin was a city of symmetry, of ordered chaos. Even this far in the past, the roads had been carefully mapped, organized into neat straight lines running parallel to each other. Neil had only been to Berlin once before, as Jonathan Eriksen, a young Britisher traveling the Continent with his mother in 1958. Then, Berlin was a city of spies and walls—completely unlike this one. The novelty made for a pleasant distraction._

_While exploring, he had also tried to study up on the habits and professions of people here. Most of them were completely unsuitable, as he didn't have the build of a roofer or a mason or carpenter, he didn't "work" the hours of a factory worker, and claiming to work in a shop was asking to be found. In the end he had settled on being a book printer, because it was was useless enough to daily life not to be asked for any help, and simple enough that it shouldn't raise too many questions._

_"I'm a bookbinder," he said after a few seconds._

_Abigail smiled, apparently interested. "Oh? What street do you work on, dear? I had a friend who worked as a binder, once. Oh, but that was years ago."_

_Neil floundered. "I'm—I'm not sure of the street names. Yet," he said, with the embarrassment of someone who was new enough to a city to be ignorant of something so simple. The embarrassment he didn't have to fake, because he should have had the answer to this._ Next time _._

_Abigail hummed. "You don't go out nearly enough," she said after a few seconds, frowning at him and Andrew. Neil struggled to keep his face straight. "Both of you. At least Aaron is courting that lovely girl—Andrew, perhaps you should show Mr. Josten around the city? It can be a daunting place for new ones, you know that."_

_Neil looked at Andrew, who looked speculative, and back at Abigail. "Oh, no, that's not necessary—I mean—"_

_Abigail shook her head. "Nonsense. I'm always telling Andrew he needs to see the sights more, make more friends. It will be good for the both of you. You must have your day off soon?" she asked him, and Neil was relieved. There was no way Andrew would say yes, because he didn't like Neil at all._

_One of the first things Neil had learned about the twins was that their outer appearances were quite a sign for what kind of people they were. Aaron kept himself tidy, with his neatly pressed formal clothes. He pulled out the chair for Abigail or Betsy, and stood when they stood, and kept his nails clipped short. He was an apprentice with a doctor nearby, and he did his best to play the part of a man who might one day, without doubt, be called middle class—but that was another question. Neil was more impressed by how well his civilized front matched his inner self. He was polite, calm, and while he could be a touch stiff at times he was quite_ ordinary _._

_Andrew, on the other hand, was the opposite. He was a mason, and there was something about him that seemed to make it more than just a profession. He was sharp as a whip, and his words were as dangerous as his body. He stood shorter than even Neil, but Neil had seen him playing with a knife. Aaron had mentioned off-handedly once that Andrew used to work for a butcher. It was enough to make Neil wary, but even if he_ hadn't _said it, Neil would have been careful around Andrew._

_The day after he had arrived in Berlin, Neil had gone out and stolen some period-appropriate clothing. The next day, curiosity had apparently gotten the better of a maid who worked at the house, and she had asked after his ridiculous old clothes._

_"They were borrowed," he had said after a second, shrugging it off as nothing troubling. "A friend—he's Greek." Everyone had nodded as though this explained everything, and Neil had relaxed._

_And then, on the way upstairs to their respective rooms, Andrew had turned to Neil with a neutral expression but endless curiosity in his tone, and said, "Funny that a man with pockets full of silver would have to wear borrowed clothes." Then he had shut himself into the room before Neil could try to provide an explanation._

_He had said nothing about it to anyone else—or Neil thought (hoped) not, because no one had said anything, but it had set him on edge all the same. He had spent the rest of the night wondering whether to leave, then decided to stay till the morning so he wouldn't be Jumping tired. In the morning, though, Andrew had behaved utterly_ ordinarily _, in that he hadn't said a word to him. And then Andrew had vanished into the city, and Neil had decided that he wasn't going to let a midget of a man frighten him away from here. All the same, he had stayed wary around him._

_He was certain Andrew definitely didn't like him enough to sacrifice his day off, which were few and far between. He had nothing to worry about._

_"I have my day off this Sunday," Andrew said, turning to look at Neil. "I'll show you around our wonderful city."_

 

_Sunday came, and Neil didn't leave. For some reason, he enjoyed Berlin, and the uncomfortable bed and bad smells and not-always-pleasant company didn't make him want to_ leave _. Maybe it was how kindly Abigail and Betsy, the co-owners of the house, were. Maybe it was the disastrous last few places he had been to. He didn't know what had made it so, but he liked being Neil, the quiet, unassuming, easily embarrassed bookbinder new to Berlin._

_On Sunday morning, Neil found Andrew sitting in the kitchen, waiting for him. He didn't say much as Neil scarfed down his breakfast, only muttering something to himself so quietly Neil couldn't make it out._

_In the morning light, the streets of Berlin looked less narrow. Everything about Berlin was nicer in the daytime—unlike Paris or Moscow or Singapore, Berlin was far more beautiful by natural light. It came alive by day, with everything from the bright carts to the unlit street lamps to even the muted grays and browns and brick-reds of their buildings looking vibrant. As the city woke up, doors and windows pushed open, people began to appear, and interesting, not entirely unpleasant, smells began to fill the air. People on foot were replaced with people in carts and carriages as the streets opened into the central parts of the city. Andrew was mostly quiet, pointing out something of use from time to time_.

_The day passed in sights and smells and sounds, not too different from the last few Neil had spent doing the same thing, but alone. The context didn't add much for him, but by lunch he was feeling remarkably as though he had been worried for no reason. Andrew wasn't doing anything other than what he had said—showing him around._

_As they stopped for lunch, which was wrapped cold sandwiches and an apple each, Neil turned to Andrew. "Why are you doing this?"_

_Andrew gave him a look. "Mrs. Winfield asked me to."_

_Neil frowned. "You didn't have to agree. I can show myself around."_

_"You didn't have to agree either," Andrew pointed out, and Neil's frown deepened. He made it sound so simple, but Neil hadn't felt, then, that it was possible to just say no and have the topic dropped. He had felt pressured to accept._

_"I couldn't disagree," he argued. "Mrs. Winfield was being insistent, for her." Now that he had said it, though, it sounded like a weak response, like_ of course _he could have said no. Neil didn't like the feeling of having no leg to stand on, though, so he continued, "It would have been rude."_

_Andrew's expression was a study in disbelief. "You are not as timid as you would have everyone believe."_

_"You don't know anything about me," he said. Andrew didn't agree or deny the statement; instead, he took a large bite of his sandwich, and chewed at a turtle's pace. Neil got the distinct feeling this was being done for his benefit, so he would be driven to impatience, and so he forced himself to sit back and say nothing more._

_"I do know that you are a liar. What I don't know is what exactly you're lying about." Neil opened his mouth, but Andrew waved a hand that shut him up. "You are new to Berlin, and maybe even Prussia as you say you are, but you're not a bookbinder. Your clothes weren't borrowed. If anything, what you're wearing now is 'borrowed'. But half of what you say is not a lie. Only the small parts, like your name. But are you a threat?"_

_Neil had never seen Andrew talk so much, but maybe the presence of Abigail or Betsy or Aaron was what kept him quiet. They had never been alone together before, and this was intentional as much as it was due to their busy days. He could see now that it had been a good decision. He couldn't Jump now without drawing the attention of about thirty people, which meant he would have to wait until they returned to do it. He'd make it so he had never come out on this little trip, and Andrew would once again be stuck to keeping his doubts silent, secret. As long as he didn't get ambushed before or after, he was safe. He was not, he would not be frightened into leaving Berlin by this man._

_So he made a show of hesitating, wiping his hands on the cloth in his hand and leaning closer as though about to tell him a secret. "Alright. I admit that I have lied. But I'm not—I'm not a threat. I promise. I'm in Berlin because I have nowhere else to go, but—I can't tell anyone my name. It's for my safety. There is no threat to yours."_

_Andrew stared at him for a long moment before he nodded. "I don't believe you," he said, "but I will not speak to Mrs. Dobson just yet."_

_Neil clenched his jaw. "How can I know that?"_

_"You will have to trust me." At Neil's glare, he smiled, all brilliant teeth looking ready to bite. Andrew was a death trap that knew it was a death trap, and Neil couldn't help but wonder what had made him so dangerous. "You have no room to argue here, liar. If you are allowed to stay at the house, that should be sign enough for you."_

_"It is not enough."_

_Andrew shook his head. "Make it enough."_

_Neil spent the rest of the walk wondering if he should erase this. Jumping backward so today had never happened would give him a way out, but he could see now that this was a conversation that was coming anyway._

_Andrew had clearly been considering this for some time now. Their talk today had resolved the building tension, at least for the time being. He wouldn't be asking Neil about this again, it seemed. From Andrew's position, it probably looked as though he had successfully cornered him, when in reality Neil was in a rather open position. If he Jumped back, Andrew might recreate this conversation later, might shift it to his advantage then. He was resourceful and clearly intelligent. If not today, if not for Abigail's open offer, they might have talked about this in the house, or on his way back, or anywhere else. Was it really better to leave it up to chance than it was to leave it as it was?_

_They went home, and Neil thanked Andrew loudly and falsely for the tour, and Abigail smiled at the both of them with something that was not entirely fondness, not entirely disbelief, in her smile. Neil did not Jump back, but decided to wait and see._

 

_—_

 

**New York City, 1956**

On a Friday, four days after he returned to the Fir Tavern for the first time, Neil introduced himself.

"Looks like we're getting another regular," the chatty bartender announced after Neil appeared in the bar and ordered his rum sour. He sat at the bar, as he always did, on the stool second-closest to the door. The Fir Tavern was open surprisingly early for the afternoon, and the place was nearly empty. "We're always happy to have more of those!"

"It's a nice place," Neil said, which was not entirely untrue. It _was_ a nice place, and it especially looked so today. At this time of day, the windows let in bright orange light, setting the room on fire. Everything looked cleaner, shinier, newly polished.

The bartender grinned, as though he didn't believe him. "You new to the area, then?"

Neil shrugged. He was, in a way. He had spent two months in New York State in 1952 once, a tiny town called Poland, but it had been a different—more rural—world. Neil did not _live_ in the area, as the bartender was implying, but he wasn't about to admit that. He was old hat to making stories for himself now, knew exactly how to make the lie seem more true, how to play to his areas of knowledge. "Moved here from Upstate a few weeks ago."

"I _thought_ so. We're all about making new friends here! I'm Roland. The quiet one's Andrew."

Neil smiled what he hoped was a natural-looking smile, and nodded. He shot a look to Andrew, who was wiping glasses that were perfectly clean, and decidedly not paying attention, before he looked back at Roland. "I'm Neil."

_Neil_. He had been Neil for so long that he didn't even think about changing his name anymore—or not around Andrew, at least. He had never spent so long with one name since he ran away. Neil was a whim, a name he couldn't even remember choosing, because he had been more exhausted than he could say when he had. Berlin, that first time. He had been Neil for three months in Berlin's timeline and a little longer in his own timeline, and _after_ , when he left it, he had switched to Emile.

Then came Rijeka. He had met Andrew on his very first day there, been torn and terrified and confused at seeing a dead man a hundred and seventy years before he had first met him— _was he a Jumper Andrew how was he alive Andrew but he_ saw _him Andrew he was alive, alive, Andrew alive—_ and he had blurted out "it's Neil."

Andrew, of course, had had no idea who he was. But after Rijeka, the name had stuck.

"Good to have you here, Neil. Another?" Neil nodded, pushing his emptied glass forward a little. Roland was evidently in a talkative mood, because he continued, "So what is it you do here?"

"I work at that printers' by the square," he said, and Roland nodded as though he knew exactly what Neil was talking about. It was a nice trick, one he had learned years ago—just the right amount of casual detail, as though you were familiar with what you were talking about and expected everyone else to be, and no one would ask. It worked excellently, most of the time.

Andrew was, apparently, an exception. "Which one?" he asked, leaving off the pretense of wiping.

Roland shot Andrew a look that said _customer_ and _play nice_. Andrew ignored him. Neil raised his eyebrows at Andrew in a dare, and said, "I forget the name. Something foreign." There were so many _something foreign_ s in New York, and most of America, at this time, that it was a perfectly valid excuse, but also perfectly obvious. Andrew's eyes narrowed a touch, shining in the light. Neil struggled not to smile at the familiar expression.

"I've got a friend who works in printing," Roland said after a few seconds, breaking the stare. "Says it's a lucky job to get."

Neil raised his glass in cheers, nodding. "Guess I'm a lucky man," he replied, and kept his eyes on Andrew as he drank.

 

_—_

 

**_Berlin, 1845_ **

_The boarding house was a comfortable place, warm, half-wood and half-brick. On the outside it was the same as almost all the other buildings it pressed up against, with its gabled roof and many small windows. On the inside it was cozy, but not cramped, with narrow stairs but large rooms. There was something extremely warm and light about it at all times, and homey—from the pleasant smells always emerging from the kitchen to the open windows with their tiny terracotta pots growing morning glories and knapweed, the whole house was lived-in and_ happy _._

_It was also, Neil discovered as he sat in his bedroom, choking in smoke, all highly flammable._

_Neil was not afraid of fire. When he noticed the noise below, realized what was happening, he had immediately pushed his door open and begun to go down and out to safety. But then the smoke had rushed up the stairs and filled his nostrils and blurred his vision, and Neil had stopped short. He couldn't breathe. Not only because of the smoke, which was filling his room thick and noxious, but also because he had grown to associate_ smoke _with California. He didn't know how long he was down there, eyes shut and struggling against the smell, struggling to rise to his feet and go_ down _. But he couldn't. Any second now, there would be a gunshot. He couldn't see the sky, but he could see flames licking their way up the stairs, could hear the chaos from downstairs. There was a hand gripping his arm, as his mother's had so many weeks ago. The smoke was everywhere, like a gray fog._

_Andrew was the one who found him there—or maybe he came looking. Andrew's face was so far from the image of his mother, so removed, that he was snapped out of his own mind for a second. It was enough. Andrew took him by the arm and dragged them both down the stairs, pushing past the flames with the both of them wrapped in a blanket. He pulled them out to cool air, looking untroubled. Neil realized he was shaken only when he spoke and his voice came out deeper than it ordinarily was._

_"Mrs. Winfield—Abigail," he said, and Neil turned to look as Abigail came to them, looking worried sick. Her presence felt distant, like she was there but not really._

_"Are you alright?"_

_His ears were still ringing with bullets. He realized too late the sound was in his mind. He frowned, saw that she was waiting for an answer, and nodded. Abigail looked worried, but she said nothing, simply turned to Aaron, who was bandaging Betsy's hands. Neil glanced down to see if he was burned anywhere—he had been in his room a long time, hadn't he? It had felt like a long time—and found Andrew's hand curled around his. "You're holding my hand," he said, mind spinning, reeling. The fresh air was helping, but not enough._

_Andrew made a noise. "Neil. Neil. Let go."_

_Andrew was not holding his hand. He was instead trying to loosen Neil's grip on his own arm. He hadn't even realized he was holding on. Neil slowly loosened the claw-like hold, feeling removed from his body, as though his fingers weren't really his own. His arm was reddened where his hand had been, and looked like an ugly bruise in the shape of a hand-print. He had had one of those before. He had worn long-sleeved shirts for a week in Dubai's blazing heat._

_"You're afraid of fire," Andrew guessed after a few seconds, wrongly. Neil looked up, and shook his head. His heart was still pounding. "Do not lie." It was all but a snarl._

_"I'm not afraid. It was the smoke," he said, the honesty easy right now. Maybe he would regret it later—maybe he wouldn't._

_They were all—Neil, Andrew, Aaron, Abigail, Betsy, and a night watchman and a lamp-lighter who had apparently helped get them out—taken into the neighbor's house, where they were given generous quantities of water. Once Neil's head was finally clear, he left the house to watch the departing fire engine, a horse-drawn monstrosity that had arrived too long after the fire had started to do much good. One of the men had entered earlier to tell Abigail and Betsy that the house was structurally intact, but most of the furniture on the ground floor was ruined. They were speaking quietly amongst themselves right now, but Neil knew this place was not going to be livable for at least a few days, if not more._

_They would all go somewhere. Abigail had family in Berlin, including a young niece who had appeared in the house from time to time. It was possible that she would go there, and Betsy go with her. Andrew and Aaron had no family here that Andrew had mentioned, but Andrew was provided room and board by his employer that he had rejected in favor of living here. Aaron had friends who would support him. Neil had nothing in Berlin. He wondered where_ he _would go._

_Andrew found him there a few minutes later, and joined him in staring up at the house._

_"If you could go anywhere in the world," Neil started after a few minutes of quiet. "Where would you go?"_

_After their first trip into Berlin together, Andrew had started talking to him. At first, Neil suspected it was a way to test him, to make sure he was definitely not any kind of danger, but it became clear after a few weeks that if it had started that way, it wasn't that anymore. And Neil—Neil_ enjoyed _talking to him._

_Andrew was not exactly someone to talk to, and in any case he didn't talk about ordinary things (ordinary things being what Neil_ assumed _ordinary people talked about, like work or friends or family). Instead, they talked in circles and riddles, pulling truths from each other like teeth. It was almost fun sometimes, because Neil could give as good as he got. Between mockery and harshly stated facts, though, they also shared secrets. These were willingly (for the most of it) given, and were fairly simple things._

_Andrew took a second, but replied. "A rock in the German Confederation." Neil raised an eyebrow at him, waited for him to elaborate, but Andrew only shook his head, as though waving something away. "Where would you go?"_

_Neil felt his chest constrict, and stared determinedly ahead. "I don't know," he said, and the words, his voice, felt torn from his lungs._

_As a Jumper who had been on the run for eight years, Neil had been to over thirty countries. He had lived in innumerable cities, spoke over a dozen languages with varying skill. He could go anywhere, any time. He could watch the invention of the wheel or walk the Great Wall while it was being constructed or experience the Ice Age._

_He did not want to leave._

_"So don't go," Andrew said. He did not mean_ here _, he meant_ now _, he meant_ Berlin _. For a long second, Neil stared at him, wondered if he had said that out loud—then he realized Andrew was responding to his last statement._ I don't know _. Was it that easy? Just '_ don't go _'? Neil had never known stillness—but in the last weeks here in Berlin, he had not been overcome by wanderlust, never had the urge to simply snap his fingers and be away from here. It was a world apart from Seoul or Helsinki or even Charleston, where he had bought an apartment with the purpose of making it a safe place._

_"What will you do?" Neil asked, because he couldn't say any of this._

_"I have a place I could go for a few weeks. Betsy told me we can return any time we wish once the furniture is restored. She offered to return some of your rent so you could afford other lodgings." His voice was mechanical, stiff._

_"I don't need her to return my rent," he said, shaking his head. "I need—" he broke off, because he didn't know what he needed. "I don't know." Again the words felt dragged out before him. The fire, the smoke, they had left him like an open wound. He was torn from the inside, and bleeding, and everything he said right now was a mistake._

_"So_ stay _," Andrew said._

_And when Neil turned to look at him—for the first time in over a month (forty-six days, nineteen hours, twenty-eight minutes, thirteen seconds, fourteen seconds, fifteen) since he had arrived here, Neil felt the strongest, irrepressible urge to Jump._

_But he did not._

 

—

 

**Sankt Goarshausen, 1754**

The Lorelei was beautiful as ever, the rock cool by his back and the waters of the Rhine whispering past. On the other side of the river, he could see the growing city of Sankt Goar, but he was early enough that there was no noise, just peaceful quiet.

It was 1754, which meant this was years after Neil had brought Andrew here. With no threat of being found by anyone, Neil closed his eyes and lay back.

He never meant to come here, really. But this rock, this river, they were places that were irrevocably tied to Andrew in his memories. Even when he didn't mean to, his fingers brought him here.

Jumping had always been instinctual for Neil. While he was training, his mother had told him this, that even without meaning to he usually got to where he was meant to go. His aim was not perfect, but his Jumping was not terrible, naturally. But their life wasn't one that allowed for _good enough_ , which meant he had to work on his aim. So they worked on it, and his aim improved. They always planned where they went, always with a time and place in mind when they Jumped, so he rarely went places he hadn't planned to go.

Then his mother died, and he stopped. Neil couldn't see the purpose of _running_ after his mother was dead—he didn't feel chased by anything more than the hundred, thousand versions of that night in his mind, all the timelines merging together to create a chaos that always, _always_ ended in blood and gunshots and screaming—so he stopped aiming for the most part, and simply Jumped.

That was how he had met Andrew for the first time. That was how he was here, right now. Something in him knew, apparently, when he needed to see the Lorelei. The memories were not long behind, and he tried not to be bitter about them. This place was not one he wanted tinged by his own misery.

Instead, he thought of Andrew's voice as they lazed in a small boat by the river, but _only_ his voice, not the laughter in his eyes or the way the sun had gleamed against his pale hair. There were too many traps there—the Lorelei was where Neil had fallen in love with Andrew, or where he had realized it, and he had known then that it was a mistake.

Unfortunately, Neil never had been good at undoing the past.

_"Ich weiß nicht, was soll es bedeuten,_  
_Daß ich so traurig bin;_  
_Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten,_  
_Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn_ ,"  
he whispered along with the murmur of the Lorelei and the phantom feeling of a boat rocking beneath him, and imagined it was Andrew.

Something made a noise, and Neil was alert and on his feet at once, eyes wide. There it was—someone, their golden head shining in the morning sun, and he felt his heart stop. _But it couldn't be_ . It couldn't. It was just some German, just another blond among thousands. Neil didn't have the strength to look, didn't have the strength to see someone else here, in _their_ place, not when he could still hear Andrew's voice singing the last verse of the poem—so he closed his eyes, thought _away_ , and snapped his fingers.

 

—

 

**_Berlin, 1845_ **

_In the mid-morning, this part of Berlin was a rush of noise and foot-traffic, people calling out names and people speaking to each other and people busy with their work. In the crowds, it was difficult to believe that the city could get even_ more _packed, and would in the future. In the rush of the street, Neil kept to his own pace, as he had nowhere to be, really. He knew that this was the general area that Andrew was currently working in, but he didn't know how welcome he would be even_ if _he dropped in to see him. That was not something Neil_ did _._

_So, he wasn't here to see Andrew. He was simply exploring the city, and would not object if he ran into him. Neil could plead ignorance to his working there; as an apprentice mason, Andrew went wherever his master in the trade did, which meant he worked in a different part of the city every few weeks. Andrew would see right through his lie, of course, but Neil didn't think he would mind very much._

_It was usually easy to be smug about Andrew's enjoying his company because Andrew insisted so much that he did_ not _. It was especially easy today, as he had been visiting Abigail and Betsy at their temporary place of stay, and Betsy had mentioned that Andrew had briefly spoken about him on his last visit. Neil wasn't going to say anything about it, because Andrew would be furious and likely uncomfortable with it, but it was nice to know all the same—that Andrew talked about him. That he_ thought _about him, because Neil couldn't stop thinking about Andrew._

_In the weeks after the fire, Neil had begun more and more to jump away from Berlin. It was not, precisely, running away, because he came back every time. Whether that was because of Andrew's_ stay _echoing in his mind whenever he considered not returning, or because it was the first place that had felt worth staying in in a long time, he didn't know. Whatever it was, Neil couldn't leave the city that had, somehow, grown on him—burrowed its roots into him and made it so he was held in place, even when he tried to pull away._

_But he could no longer simply stay here. The month (thirty-eight days) at a stretch he had spent in Berlin felt like a dream, like an impossible feat, because he had never felt the urge to Jump away as strongly as he had nearly every day after it. Not the choking need to_ run _, not the clawing panic he had felt dozens of times in the last months without his mother, but something overwhelming. Like he would be taken under if he stayed, lost to... something._

_And Neil knew, had to admit, that the reason for this was Andrew._

_Ten minutes with Andrew could be more intense than a year with anyone else. It was nothing more than simply talking, and sometimes not even that—just sitting together on the stairs by Andrew's tiny rooms, smoking or thinking or occasionally speaking to each other. It was nothing, should mean nothing, but somehow, it meant everything in the world. Sometimes it felt Neil lived for this, like_ this _could be something more than three months in a strange city with a man who said he hated him. With enough time spent here, he could forget the apartment he'd bought in Charleston, forget his present, forget being a nomad through time. Berlin could be something_ more _._

_That was why he needed to Jump away every few days. Nothing had been_ more _ever before—no place or time had been_ home _, no one had been more than simply an acquaintance, forgotten the second he left. No one had been before what Andrew was. It was terrifying._

_It was exhilarating._

_Once, Andrew had leaned in, seconds away from Neil's face. His eyes had dropped to his lips, his jaw, his neck, and then disappeared under the collar of Neil's shirt. And then, after seconds of simply staying that way, Neil afraid to even breathe in case he disrupted this—whatever_ this _was—he had pulled away. He hadn't been able to speak for hours after, his chest expanded and constricted at the same time._

_He had Jumped away for a week in Moscow after that, but there had been no doubt in his mind about returning. He had to. Something about Berlin, something about_ Andrew _, had hooked him in and now kept him in place._

_Neil's eyebrows rose as he saw Andrew standing outside a building under construction. It was a small building, the intended purpose unrecognizable to Neil's untrained eye, with over a dozen people working within. There were stones and wood and bricks and endless other tools strewn about the ground, occupying nearly every square foot of space, which wasn't much to begin with—the construction site was in the middle of a crowded street. It looked like an accident waiting to happen, but Neil was sure that everyone working here knew how to navigate it. Masonry was difficult work, but rarely fatal._

_Andrew saw Neil coming toward him and narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms over himself. "Shouldn't you be_ working _,_ bookbinder _?" he asked as Neil got closer._

_Neil grinned. "I had a day off."_

_Andrew scowled. "I'll be sure to tell your employer that."_

_"Does_ your _employer know that you're standing out here instead of being busy doing—that?" He waved an arm at the other workers, one of whom was watching Andrew with thinly veiled irritation._

_"I've been left in charge until he returns. I'm supervising." Andrew's tone and expression were no different from his usual ones, but something about the words made it sound almost proud of himself. Unlike Aaron, Andrew didn't care very much about his work, seeing it only as a way to earn his living—or so Neil had assumed. And yet, there was something very satisfied in his words, enough to make Neil smile._

_"Sounds like tough work."_

_"It is_ work _, and I would appreciate it if you left me to it. Go away."_

_Neil shrugged. "I was just exploring. I didn't know you would be working here." It didn't work; Andrew stared at him blankly, and eventually Neil backed down, as he had known he would. "And I will continue exploring." With a quick two-fingered salute to Andrew, Neil turned around and marched down the street, only shooting one quick look back at him to verify that he wasn't looking at Neil. He wasn't, but only just._

_The next few hours passed in sightseeing, something that Neil was certain would never get old, and it was noon by the time Neil was back in familiar territory—or as familiar as they came; most of Berlin at this time was a maze of identical-looking tenements, the residential streets all looking exactly alike—and he was beginning to grow hungry. He stopped in a noisy tavern for a meant-to-be-hot stew before retracing his steps and returning the way he had come._

_It was hotter now, and people had begun returning to their homes or lodgings for lunch. Neil sped up this time, made uncomfortable by the sweat beading up on his back and neck. As he got closer to the construction site, he frowned. While the rest of the streets had quieted as the sun grew higher and hotter, this place seemed to have grown louder. Were the workers expected to work in this heat? He moved faster, his breath catching as he saw a crowd formed around the site. Andrew was nowhere to be seen._

_Neil moved into the crowd, pushing past people. Where was Andrew? He didn't like crowds, so it was possible he had gone away, but—_ where _? Everything seemed slowed down within this pack of bodies, like a hush descended upon them, closing them away from the rest of the world. Someone with a head of half-familiar auburn hair was rushing away from the site. His neck prickled. Someone was saying something about "such an unfortunate accident", but when Neil's head swiveled to look at them, they quieted. And then he was amidst the workers, their bodies sweaty and sticky even in their thin shirts, but none of them were the right shade of blond, the right height, the right face._

_And then he was in the center of the crowd, just him and Andrew._

_Andrew was on the ground. There was blood, a large stone, and his eyes were cracked open._

_Nausea swelled. He backed away. Someone somewhere was saying "no" repeatedly, their voice sounding dead even to Neil's ears, which were ringing. Was that real smoke he smelled, or was it in his head? He pushed back through the crowd, or maybe they let him pass._

_Andrew was—_

_Someone roared in loud and furious German, something that might have been "what happened". Someone said something else in German, quieter, pacifying. Neil recognized one word._

_He Jumped._

 

—

 

**New York City, 1956**

On a Saturday, twenty-two days after he had introduced himself to Roland, Neil met Andrew's cousin.

Neil was seated in his usual spot by the bar, sipping slowly at his second drink of the evening. He had spent the last nine days in sunny Vasco da Gama, sipping at colorful but harmless drinks and trying to keep his mind on the view, but they had left him less relaxed than one might hope. He had been alarmed when he had walked in and Roland had whistled at his tan, but he had played it off as a result of accidentally spending too long on the beach, and been left alone—mostly. Andrew kept his eyes on him, which Neil would like more if they weren't laden with suspicion.

"Too long on the beach?" Andrew asked, as though he was trying to catch him in a lie. Roland gave him a look, but said nothing, instead turning to face a tall man approaching Neil. "Where do you find the time with the printers' hours?"

Neil opened his mouth, but was interrupted by Roland's loud announcement. "Nicky!" It was too loud, as though he was trying to distract Andrew and Neil from the questioning. Nicky grinned back, though with considerably less enthusiasm. He took the seat next to Neil's and nodded to Andrew, who, to his surprise, nodded back. "Neil, this is Nicky, Andrew's cousin. Nicky, this is Neil, the kid I was telling you about."

Andrew had never had a cousin before, but this was not entirely strange. All of them had different relations—some had none at all. Neil had only seen Aaron, Andrew's twin in Berlin, once. He had met his older sister Allison once, his mother twice, though they had been different women in both personality and appearance, and his childhood best friend Kevin twice. And, of course, his _wife_ —also just the once.

Neil didn't like to think about that.

"No Erik today?" Roland asked as he poured and mixed. Nicky's face, if anything, sank further.

"He refused. He's got some new roommate who he didn't want to leave alone."

Andrew got Neil's attention again by placing a glass in front of him, and Neil turned to look up at him with surprise. He had been here five times now, excluding the first night when he had run away, and he had never had Andrew pay him much attention. It was strange to see it _now_ , when the bar was busy enough that he couldn't pause in mixing drinks even as he talked to Neil. "Printers' hours," Andrew repeated, eyes on a large steel shaker.

"They're long, but I make time."

This caught Nicky's attention, and he turned to look at Neil. "That's cool, man. See, that's what Erik's usually like. But this new roommate—he's _new here_ , so Erik wanted to keep him company. He's such a great guy, honestly."

Roland gave Nicky a sympathetic look, and lowered his voice so no one could hear, though it was unlikely anyone would over the noise of the crowd and the loud song playing on the jukebox. "Don't let it rattle you, Nicky. It's just because he's new."

Nicky sighed, sounding less than happy. "I know."

Neil understood why he had lowered his voice abruptly, and gave Nicky another look, this time one of mild surprise. He had assumed he was complaining about being abandoned by a friend, but he was in fact talking about his partner. It was unusual for someone to be so open about their relationships in this era, but Nicky must trust that he was between friends: no one who would out him.

Andrew was now staring at Neil intently, as though expecting him to scream and call Nicky a heathen sinner, or something of that sort. Neil did nothing like it, instead sipping at his drink quietly.

"He's too square to be interesting, anyway," Nicky muttered, but he was tearing up tissues, and immediately after launched into a rant about how the roommate was, according to Erik, a complete bore who spent all his time trying to smooth out his accent so he couldn't be recognized as a "fucking Pole". Neil kept his mind out of this conversation as it got uglier, and instead nursed his drink in silence, occupied with his own distracting thoughts.

Six minutes later, he was hit on the face with a peanut, and he blinked up to see Andrew glaring at him. Roland was nowhere to be seen, and Nicky too was now two seats away. The ones in between had two very drunk men talking very loudly about something, who would definitely not hear them.

"Hey, nosebleed," Andrew began, but didn't continue.

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you. You were listening to them talk." It wasn't a question, so he didn't answer, just gave Andrew a blank, innocent look. "No one hears of it."

_This_ he understood. The threat of persecution was strong in this time-period, and Nicky's hushed talking too created the possibility of arrest (and with it endless social shunning), if anyone reported him. Neil wouldn't be that anyone, but Andrew didn't know that. "Who would I tell?"

His sneer in response was harsh, cold. Neil hadn't expected him to react so strongly—who did he think Neil was? Had he met people who had reacted so badly to this, to the idea of _homosexual behavior_ , to be this wary of a complete stranger? Or was this because he wanted to protect Nicky? "Nothing to say? Normally you won't shut up."

"You pay attention to me?" Neil shot back, and took it for a victory.

"Hard not to, with you taking up so much space. Twice in a week. No one comes here that often. Definitely no one with a printers' job."

"I like to drink," he said, keeping his voice light. "If you wanted to talk to me, you just had to ask."

"No one wants to talk to you," Andrew said.

"But you're talking to me right now."

Andrew's eyes flashed dangerously, and Neil watched him as he tightened his grip around the shaker, as though wishing his hands were around Neil's neck. It was more attractive than it should have been, so Neil decided he was on the way to being drunk, and aborted before he said something he would regret.

"I'm not talking to anyone. Nicky's business is his own."

He got an intense look in return, and bit his lip to keep still. "Keep it that way," Andrew bit out after a few seconds, and looked abruptly away from him. Neil left the bar three minutes later to place his head against the cool brick wall and _wish_ , wish—

 

—

 

**_Nashville, 1992_ **

_Evan went to a tiny public school in Nashville, with maybe four hundred students enrolled. It was a sad place, with miserable teachers and miserable students and tiny classrooms in a miserable condition—utterly forgettable. His mother had chosen it because of this, and Evan thought he should like it because of this. They had been in Nashville for a week now, and after three days of attending_ Pearl Valley High _, Evan couldn't help but decide that he didn't like it at all, even if it was good for their reasons._

_He left the school on foot even as his classmates boarded the bus and got on their bikes or in their cars, and ignored the queue forming steadily to leave the gates as he kept to his own speed. It was September, but after months in Toronto, Nashville felt sweltering. Evan ignored it, and trudged on to the small house they had broken into for the duration of their stay here. His stomach grumbled as he passed an outdoor cafe, but he ignored that too. They had served some kind of meat stir fry at lunch, and he had eaten as much of it as he could without having to return for a second serving, which meant he should be fine until the evening, at least._

_Nearing the apartment, Evan paused as he saw someone leaning against the wall, eating a cup of yogurt. His stomach grumbled again, and he clenched his jaw._

_"You," the man said. He was definitely only a few years older than Evan was, no older than twenty, and_ shorter _than him, but 'boy' didn't seem the right word._

_"Who are you?" he asked, frowning, as the man fell in-step with him._

_He ignored Evan completely, sucking at the tiny plastic spoon in his mouth. "You're not from around here." It wasn't a question—the confidence with which he said it made Evan's chest clench with fear._ No _. His mother was in the apartment, what if someone had reached her? He seemed too young to be one of his father's men, and in any case it had been almost a year since one of them had found him, but was it worth taking a chance on?_

_"Why would you think that?" he asked after a second, keeping his voice as steady as he could, maintaining a steady walk toward the house. He couldn't Jump away from here without his mother, because separation meant the end. Time and space was too large to lose someone in, and he wasn't taking that chance. "You have no idea who I am."_

_"No? What's your name?" the man asked._

_Evan swallowed. "Evan." It was not entirely a lie—it was what he was calling himself, what his mother called him, what all his teachers and classmates knew him as. For all means and purposes, he_ was _Evan._

_The man looked at him like he had expected this. He took a bite of fruit yogurt before he answered. "No, it's not."_

_They had reached the house, so Evan stopped, one hand on the doorknob. If he tried anything, he would run, grab his mother, and Jump away from here. His mother was better at Jumping backward into their timeline than he was, but Evan could get them away from here, anyway. If the man was a Jumper or planning to hang on, he didn't show it. He stood well away from Evan, with one of his hands was occupied with the cup of yogurt, the other with the spoon. If it weren't for the all-black outfit, the questions, Evan wouldn't think he was dangerous. "I don't know what you want, but—"_

_He never got to finish his sentence. His mother had apparently been waiting; at the sound of his voice, the door banged open, and she grabbed his hand—"Evan!"—and Jumped back, far enough that they never went to Nashville. The man didn’t find them again, and then time corrected itself, and Evan forgot him._

 

—

 

**New York City, 1956**

On a Wednesday, eleven days after he met Nicky, Neil landed in the back alley behind the bar to find Andrew standing outside the Fir Tavern, a deep frown on his face.

Neil had never seen (this version of) Andrew outside the bar before, and it was strange to see him here now. He was clearly waiting for someone, and Neil hesitated in the shadows of the alley, wondering what explanation he would give for why he was standing there. Instead, he waited for a second, watching Andrew.

He was, as usual, all in black. Both Andrew and Roland were always neatly dressed for their job, but while Roland usually wore crisp white shirts with ties and the occasional waistcoat, Andrew usually dressed almost entirely in black. It was a little unsettling, and looked a little more so in the light of the setting sun. He was frowning as he fiddled with his pockets, and he had just had a haircut. It suited him.

After a few seconds in which Andrew didn't move, Neil quietly left the alley's shadows and stepped behind him. Then he cleared his throat and tried to look surprised. "Andrew," he said, a pleasant smile on his face.

Andrew turned and looked at Neil carefully, like he had never seen him before—or like he hadn't seen him for a long time, or like he hadn't expected to see him. Neil frowned. They were definitely in the correct year, the correct month and week, even. It had been four days since he had last visited the bar, and there was no way Andrew would not recognize him. Had he been waiting for someone else?

The look in his eyes melted away to his usual apathy. "Neil," Andrew said after a long second. "You're here."

Neil raised an eyebrow. "It shouldn't be very surprising. Weren't you telling me that I come here too often?"

Andrew snorted and shook his head. "Of course you do."

"Were you waiting for someone?" Neil asked when he didn't continue, simply watching him in silence. _Studying_ him, almost. It gave him a very uncomfortable feeling—like he was being observed, assessed, judged. Something had happened, must have happened, for Andrew to be looking at him like this. He was being distinctly _not himself_.

"You," he said, and then put his hand out between them, clenched in a loose fist. At first Neil thought he was going to hit him, but he only held it there, closed palm facing up.

Neil stared at it, eyes wide. This was—not what he had expected. He was confused, caught in something he didn't know how to explain. Four days ago Andrew had glared at him and mocked him and asked him prying questions. Talked to him, too, but all with the intention of finding something out of the ordinary, something not right about him. This was unexpected, out of the blue, if not a bad thing.

Neil was not—not _intentionally—_ here to meet Andrew, or to befriend him, or to _start_... anything. Being in New York wasn't something he could help, the way going to Winsford or finding him in Rijeka hadn't been. He simply Jumped and landed here, and then took the opportunity to see him. Neil had never expected that just because he had been _something_ with Andrew in Berlin and Dundee and Madras, he would be now, too. He did not want anything more from Andrew than to see him, occasionally, _alive_. It was not this Andrew's fault that Neil had fallen in love with another, and he did not expect him to do this.

But he was also incapable of rejecting him. Maybe that was his mistake.

He hovered his hand over Andrew's palm, frowning up at him. "What is this about?"

Andrew gave him a sharp smile, all teeth. He opened his fist and closed it around Neil's hand, pressed something into it. From him Neil got the distinct impression of something _off—_ but nothing about the feeling made sense.

"It's about you being an idiot," he said.

Neil frowned. "What?" Andrew abruptly let go of his hand, took a large step back, well away from him. Neil took a wary step forward, tiny, not wanting to spook him. Something was _wrong_ here, and Neil was missing it. But what?

" _Stay away from Andrew_ ," Andrew hissed. Neil shook his head, confused, because _that didn't make sense_. Andrew raised his free hand in a position Neil knew by heart. Just as he realized what was going on, just as his heartbeat took over his ears and his breath stopped, just as he opened his mouth to say—

Andrew snapped his fingers, and he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the kudos and comments! i'm amazed tbh


	3. i love you never felt like any blessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil finds Andrew, and gets some of the answers he wanted. Also: Winsford, 1812.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Heavy In Your Arms](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V_eOmvM-4zc) by Florence + The Machine
> 
> Literally a thousand thanks to my beta, Etra aka coldsaturn!

**_Winsford, 1812_ **

_A nice constant that Neil had found by being a Jumper was that no matter when he visited it, England tended to be cold. He had spent the last three weeks (nineteen days) in hot and sweaty Mexicali, and after that experience, England felt like a breath of fresh air._

_He had landed in a small village, somewhere on a bridge, and from here he could make out only the beginning of roofs in the distance, half-hidden by the tree line. It was mid-morning on a Sunday, which meant—hopefully—most of the villagers would be in church. This was as good a time to get himself some clothing as any, and he marched away toward the trees._

_The first place he came across was a large country house, with a garden built in front. There was no one here, so Neil went around the gardens and into the back, where a low wall had been built to separate the yard from the reaching forest. More than one clothesline hung from one wall to the other, with enough linens and cottons that Neil could, in theory, find everything he needed here. That was likely a bad idea, though, as it would be noticed missing immediately, so Neil took only a pair of trousers and a waistcoat, both of which looked close enough to his size to be wearable._

_The next house he could see was easily a carriage-ride away, but Neil was good at walking. From there he took only an outer coat, because the owner of the clothes was too tall for any of his other items to be of any use to Neil. From the house after that, he_ borrowed _a shirt and tails and then, making sure there was no one around, changed out of his old clothes into his new ones._

_Ten minutes later, he had thrown his old clothes into the stream—where they would wash up in a few days to someone's confusion—and looked an average Englishman from this era._

_By the time he reached the common, most of the village was gathered there as well, dressed in their Sunday bests. His arrival went largely unnoticed; only a few eyes turned his way, and Neil waited. It was a small village, ideal gossip grounds, and no one would resist a stranger for very long. In a few seconds, an older man approached him, frowning gently._

_"May I help you, sir?"_

_Neil feigned a French accent, said, "This is the village Winsford, yes? I am visiting my cousin, but he seems to be away."_

_The man stroked his beard, then laughed, loud, satisfied with whatever answer he himself had created. "You must be Moreau's cousin! He's in London for the Christmas, just left."_

_Neil pulled a face. "We must have crossed paths. Is there an inn here where I may stay for a few days? I'm afraid I have not much to pay with if I am to return to London soon, only Napoleons."_

_The man sighed heavily. "_ French money _," he said fairly contemptuously, as though he was not speaking to someone he thought was French. Neil resisted quirking his lips. "I'm afraid I cannot help you there. But, ah, I believe I know someone who can. Mrs. Walker—ah, there you are." He beckoned to a young woman who came to them obediently, curtseying shallowly to Neil. "This man here is Moreau's cousin, seems to have crossed paths with him. Oh, what did you same your name was, man?"_

_"Neil," he said._

_The man turned a little red, and grumbled once more, "_ Frenchmen _." Neil pretended not to hear him. Mrs. Walker only looked amused._

_"My pleasure to meet you, Monsieur," Mrs. Walker said in French, and Neil bowed to her politely. "My husband and I have been dear friends with Mr. Moreau for many years now. I'm certain he will be unhappy to have missed you."_

_"I am happy to hear it. I hope there is somewhere I can find accommodations for the night? I will attempt to leave in the morning, if I can find suitable travel to London."_

_"Oh, that is hardly necessary. Any cousin of Jean's is a friend of ours as well. And if it is only for one night, it will be no imposition to us. We would love to be better acquainted with Mr. Moreau's cousin."_

_Neil frowned, surprised at_ this _. Dear friends of_ Jean's _or not, he hadn't expected an invitation to someone's home. Mrs. Walker looked perfectly certain of her decision, but it seemed strange to Neil that she would invite a stranger over like this—even if this stranger was the cousin of a friend._

_"I can find an inn, Mrs. Walker, this isn't—"_

_Mrs. Walker shook her head decisively, cutting him off. "Surely you would not prefer an inn to our home and company? My husband will be very happy to meet you." She turned abruptly to the other man, who was watching their conversation with a deep frown of confusion at not knowing what was being spoken of. "Mr. Bevin, Mr. Neil here has agreed to join us at our home for supper and stay for the night. If you wish to find him, you can send a man there." Neil frowned, feeling a lot like he was the one being maneuvered here, instead of the other way around. What was making her so_ insistent _on this?_

 _The man nodded, satisfied. "Excellent, excellent. Then I shall leave you for now. Mr. Neil—_ monsieur _," he added in poor accent, before continuing in English, "I hope you enjoy your stay in Winsford, however brief it might be."_

 _Neil nodded, then turned back to Mrs. Walker, who was smiling very pleasantly, as though she hadn't—_ somehow _, for some unknown reason, trapped him into staying at her place. But_ why _?_

_"Mr. Neil," she said, her head inclined toward the crowd. "I'm sure you must be impatient to rest."_

_There was nothing more to add, and it seemed impossible to argue with her, so he nodded and took the arm she was offering. She was shorter than him, but barely. They made their way through the crowd with one or two short nods, but Mrs. Walker didn't engage anyone in conversation. Something about her, about their interaction just now, made him feel wary about her, like he had to stay on his guard—this was a woman who was far cleverer than she appeared, or_ wanted _to appear. With her hair pulled into a neat updo hidden by a bonnet, a few curls escaping near her crown, her neat dress—all white with bare embroidery—and a smile like she was happy with all the world, she looked simple, pleasant._

_She may be pleasant, but simple she most certainly was not._

_"Mrs. Walker," he began as they neared the carriages, and she looked up at him, a tiny crease pulling at her brows. In the past five minutes since their acquaintance, Neil had only seen her smiling, and now the frown felt_ wrong _on her face._

_"Renee," she corrected. He opened his mouth to protest, but she continued, "please."_

_He opened his mouth and shut it, then nodded._ Renee _. She grew more and more confusing every time she spoke, somehow. Was it because of her connection with Neil's fake cousin, or was it something else? He had never spent very long in this era, the few months he_ had _in London with his mother—_ and _he'd been about twelve. All he remembered was stiff formality and pretenses everywhere. Everything was encoded in cultural habits, a whole society breathing as everyone around them did. To do something outside the norm was unspeakable—that was why Neil had said he was French, because they didn't expect the French to adhere to their English habits._

_And yet, here was Renee Walker, asking someone she had just met into her home, asking him to call her by name. Why? What made her so certain he, a foreigner, a stranger, was safe? Why was no one batting an eye at this? Did she regularly take in strays, or was it just him?_

_And, maybe more importantly, was he curious enough to stay to find out?_

_"Neil," she said, pulling him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see a man standing before them, by the first carriage, and his breath caught._ No _. "Meet my husband, Andrew."_

 _Renee was still speaking, but Neil could no longer hear the words—and if he heard them, he couldn't understand them. His mouth had dried, because he hadn't expected_ this _. Andrew. It had been—not very long, only twenty-three days since he had Jumped away from the ranch, but it felt longer. He hadn't expected to meet another Andrew so soon._

 _He definitely hadn't expected to meet his_ wife _._

_Andrew's voice tore him away from that line of thought, and Neil dragged himself back to the now. "No. We're not doing this."_

_Renee shot him a quelling look. "Andrew, please. He's here, and he has nowhere to go."_

_Neil cleared his throat, and Andrew gave him a quietly furious look. Neil couldn't see why he was_ this _angry, but then, if ever his wife brought him a stranger and told him they were keeping him, he might be irritated too. "I don't think—"_

_Andrew scowled. "You may not speak," he practically hissed in French. Neil blinked and took a step back, surprised at the level of animosity he was receiving. Renee frowned at him, and they had a non-verbal conversation that Neil couldn't follow. After a few seconds, Andrew glared at Neil one last time, and climbed into the carriage. Renee gave Neil a smile and indicated for him to follow, then climbed in herself._

_Andrew kept his face turned outside, away from the both of them, but Neil could practically feel his anger, simmering. It was incongruent with this situation, somehow. A stranger invited to their house surely didn't call for this kind of—fury. Did it? Or was this, too, connected to Neil's fake cousin, Jean? Neil was missing something key here, and he didn't know what. It was frustrating._

But _. If he didn't know by tonight, he would leave. Curiosity be damned, Andrew was here, and he was alive—and he was married. And he was quite possibly_ happily _married. Neil was not going to stay here and risk interfering in that. When he Jumped away tonight, he would make sure not to return to 1812, to this village._

 _He didn't need to worry about Andrew dying, didn't need to think about saving him—that was Renee's job. Or was he being petty? The knowledge that Andrew was_ married _had settled into the pit of his stomach, a rot. It shouldn't have—he_ shouldn't _be so bitter about this. After all, he had no right to him, no connection. He was no one._

_But he was resentful all the same. Just a little. As they drove, all silent, he kept replaying Andrew and Renee's silent conversation in his mind. What had they said, or thought? How had she convinced him to let Neil stay with them without so much as speaking a word? Had she actually quelled his anger, or was Andrew going to attempt murder when they got back? And why had he been so angry in the first place?_

_He had none of the answers he wanted._

_They stopped in front of the country house that he had stolen the trousers from, and Neil pressed his lips together to keep himself from hysteria. Renee showed him inside, leading him to a room that she said was his for as long as he wanted to stay there. He nodded, thanked her._

_"Neil," she said, smiling softer now, somehow more real than earlier at the common. "No matter what Andrew says, it is good to see you again."_

 

—

 

**Charleston, 2014**

Neil landed in Charleston breathing heavily, his fingers sweaty from failed attempts at snapping. It was the 26th of February, 2014 AD, twenty hours and eleven minutes in Eastern Standard Time, four seconds, five seconds, six, and Andrew Minyard was a Jumper.

_Since when?_

That was a ridiculous question, especially for a Jumper. Jumpers were eternal, in a manner of speaking, they were _always_ and _never_. For all that Jumpers were meant to stick to a present time, a time that was theirs because they had been born in it, they were not limited by time. You were a Jumper, or you weren't—there was no _since when_. The better question was this: _which one_? Had Neil met him before? Had he met Neil before?

More than one?

He had known Neil, that was without doubt. _Neil_ , he had said, so sure around the word, the name. Did he know when Neil had taken that name? Why he had kept it?

 _It's about you being an idiot_.

What had he wanted? What did he _know_? Why did he tell Neil to stay away from Andrew?

There were a thousand questions burning through his mind, and he could feel a headache growing. He had Jumped to New York with the intention of nothing more than alcohol and, maybe, some conversation. The conversation he was at a loss for—and in any case, he would not be able to speak to anyone intelligibly now, not after that—but the alcohol he could provide on his own.

Neil pushed off the wall and stumbled to the kitchen, and as he pulled out a bottle of whiskey, he spotted a half-eaten tin of beans lying on the counter. It was from the last time Neil had come here, just about two months ago in his personal time, but over six here. The beans looked as though they had grown mold. He had been a mess then, too, the result of seeing Andrew in New York, so close on the heels of Winsford. Now he felt almost wistful about it, because then at least _something_ was simple.

Neil was a Jumper, and Andrew was the man who made him fall, over and over. Reincarnations, or rebirths, or some miracle of time that only a Jumper could experience. That was simple, that was easy. Finding Andrew was a habit now, and losing him was punishment for not leaving. But _this_.

Why had Andrew come to find him? Had he looked? Or had he simply landed in New York the way Neil had one day, months ago, and seen Neil, and known him for who he was? Had he known that there was another Andrew just one wall away from him, serving drinks, whom Neil had spoken to?

He had to. What else would he mean by _stay away from Andrew_?

He took a large swig straight from the bottle, wincing at the burn of liquor, and moved to his sofa so he could consume it in peace. Andrew's appearance—and disappearance—had sharply increased his need for alcohol. He didn't ordinarily drink very much, not enjoying the feeling of loss of control, something far more dangerous for Jumpers than it was for most. He only did _this_ when he needed to black out for a while, physically or mentally. It was probably unhealthy, but it was another habit he was finding difficult to break. Right now should have been one of those times, but it wasn't, not quite.

He did not want to disappear. He wanted answers.

Andrew had given him a message and vanished, but—

Neil stood. Andrew had given him more than just one message. He had, for just a second there, pressed something in Neil's hand. A paper? He had given him something, a note or a message or maybe an answer, and then he had Jumped away and Neil had been too distracted to hold on.

Neil abandoned the bottle on the sofa, shook his head to clear his mind, and Jumped. He landed about three seconds after he had left. He could still smell that unnameable _something,_ crackling or burning or sour, the scent of a Jump. New York was the same as he had left it, and if he walked past a corner and into a bar, he would find another Andrew serving drinks. He could ignore what the Jumper had said—he could joke with Roland, and pretend he didn't want to talk to Andrew, and maybe, if he tried, he could even forget that this ever happened.

 _Well_. He could even make it that it had never happened. Go back two hours to Casablanca, see the sights some more instead of landing in that moment. Or he could go back twenty minutes and try to stop Andrew from Jumping away.

 _Or_ he could go back a year, and stop Andrew from dying that first time in Berlin. In a day or two, he would forget that he had ever died at all, and that accident would have been a close call. He could almost see himself back in Berlin. Maybe one day he would have really gotten a job—maybe one day he would have stopped Jumping away. Maybe one day, Andrew would have leaned in and not pulled away. All he had to do was snap his fingers. It would be so easy.

It didn't work. It never worked. He had learned that lesson when his mother died, and he was never doing that again—not to Andrew, and not to himself. Time was not as easy to play with as that, even for a Jumper.

And besides, no matter how many times he thought about it, he could not simply undo this, any of this. Maybe he didn't _want_ to forget.

And there it was. There was a half-crumpled piece of paper lying on the ground, but the scent of a recent Jump was too strong in the air, and though he knew it was more likely to be _his_ , Neil felt like he was being destroyed from the inside out. He Jumped back to Charleston, found the whiskey on the sofa where he had left it seven minutes ago, and moved to the closest window for light.

He opened his fist. It was a small piece of lined paper, torn hastily away. The writing on it was scribbles in marker, barely legible.

 _Dubai_  
_14th of September, 2012_ _  
00:00_

Neil let out a long breath, and crumpled the paper in his palm. It wasn't an answer, but it was something.

 

—

 

**_Winsford, 1812_ **

_Andrew was in Neil's room before he had much chance to do anything but sit. He was still reeling from Renee's words, heart pounding audibly in his ears, fingers shaking just a little, but if Andrew noticed, he didn't say anything—or he didn't care._

_"What are you doing here?"_

_What_ was _he doing here? He didn't know what answer Andrew wanted. It was possible that any answer he gave would be wrong, because he_ had never met him before _._

_It was, in theory, possible for Jumpers to meet people in the wrong order. There were books about it, movies, TV shows. In reality, Jumpers tended to avoid this—or so Neil thought. The last Jumper he had met on pleasant terms was when he was a child, and this wasn't something he had really thought about, or talked about, but it felt to Neil that out-of-order meetings were not something any Jumper would want any more than Neil did. And yet, somehow, he had fallen into that trap._

_At some point in his personal future, he would meet this Andrew in_ his _personal past. What would happen then? What_ had happened _then?_

_Andrew was still glaring at him from across the room, arms crossed, and Neil felt like a fish out of water, gasping for breath. "I don't—"_

_"You had the offer and you refused. I never said you were allowed to change your mind."_

What offer _? Neil was dizzy with the possibilities. He wanted to simply Jump away, make it so he had never been to Winsford—but in doing so, he might just perpetuate the future. He wouldn't remember meeting Andrew here in 1812, so he wouldn't know to avoid meeting him later. He couldn't, he shouldn't—_

_Andrew was waiting. Neil looked around, then concentrated his gaze on his feet so he didn't have to look at the contempt on Andrew's face. "I didn't intend to come here," he ground out eventually._

_It was possibly the wrong thing to say. Andrew took the rest of the room in two steps and hauled Neil up by the collar of his shirt. His hands fisted around his neck, furious and trembling. "Then why did you?"_

_This close, Neil could see the rage in his features, in the snarl of his mouth, in his frown, burning in his eyes. What had he done to Andrew to make him despise him so much? What_ offer _had he turned down? There was no way to find out, or at least no way that would not tip Andrew off of his being a stranger to him, out of time. He was the wrong Neil, or not the right Neil yet, and he didn't know how to tell him._

 _For a second, he wanted to laugh at the irony. After all the times he met_ other _Andrews, after the horror of finding out in Rijeka that_ this _was not the correct Andrew, he was faced with being the wrong Neil. But it wasn't funny at all, and he didn't want to laugh in the face of Andrew's anger. This close, he could also see the shutters in his eyes, the beginning of dimples he knew he would have when he smiled, the harsh line of his jaw._

_Neil was suddenly, helplessly, tired._

_"Andrew," he began, but didn't know what he would say next._

_Something about the word, the name, must have reached him, because he dropped Neil onto the seat with no warning. Standing over him, he frowned, deeply upset about_ something _._

 _"You should have stayed in Bath with Day and your_ friends _," Andrew said, and then leaned in until his face was inches away from Neil. This was no closer than they had been seconds ago, but now his snarl had melted away into something that hurt more to look at. Confusion? Disappointment? The last thing he ever wanted to do was disappoint Andrew. Neil could feel him breathing._

_Why would he want to stay in Bath if Andrew was here? The answer was glaringly obvious: because he knew that an earlier version of himself would be coming here instead. Having two Neils here would be even worse than having one in the wrong order, the wrong time. But that wasn’t why Andrew was telling him to stay in Bath._

_"Why?" he asked._

_Andrew didn’t answer him, apparently having taken Neil’s question as a rhetoric. "I am going to kiss you now," he said instead, slowly and deliberately. It was somehow as much a question as it was a statement of fact._

_Neil took a deep breath, and nodded. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, his throat, and it was furious and it_ wanted _. "Yes," he said._

_Andrew kissed him._

 

—

 

**Dubai, 2012**

It was, quite possibly, the darkest hour of the night. Neil was seated by one of the windows in his apartment in Charleston, and apart from some street lights, the city was covered in a blanket of darkness, comfortable.

He was going to go to Dubai. He knew he was. When he Jumped away from Charleston, that was his destination, but. _But_. Not yet. Neil wasn't ready, somehow, even after over eight hours of simply sitting here. He was full of questions still, and he knew the only way—or, at least, the fastest way—to his answers was to meet Andrew where he had asked him to. And yet, he couldn't make himself go there.

Somehow, he was certain that going there would mean the end of _something_. That whatever he learned, whatever Andrew told him, whatever questions he answered or didn't answer, something was going to change, irrevocably and forever. Neil would not be able to undo this, and he wanted to preserve the current state of things for just a little longer.

Of course, the current state of things was a state in disruption. Andrew had, with his appearance, made certain that Neil would not be able to remain _calm_ . He had given him a landing site, but taken away his parachute, and Neil was in free fall. The last time he had been this _confused_ was Winsford.

Was this Andrew connected, somehow, to Winsford? Were they maybe even the same person? This Andrew had looked unnerved by his presence, just as that one had. _It's about you being an idiot._ This one seemed to dislike him just as much as that one had, too—right up until the point he kissed him. Neil had not seen him Jump yet, but it was not impossible. After all, the Andrew in Winsford _was_ the only one whom Neil hadn't seen die.

 _Yet_ , some cruel part of his mind added, and took joy in it when Neil's stomach swooped down. It was always _yet_.

What would Neil do to save him— _them_? Why had he never tried?

He knew the answers to these questions (Everything, and, Because it never worked), but these were old questions, ones he had been asking himself since Dundee. The answers he really needed were not with him—they were in the note crumpled in his fist, reread so many times over the night that Neil could almost trace the words.

Andrew had given him a time and a fairly non-specific place, but that was enough. Dubai was a big city—but Neil didn't need coordinates. It was possible, in theory, to find someone anywhere in time if you concentrated hard enough, or if you were skilled at it. Near impossible, but not _entirely_. For years, his father's men had followed them that way. They had given up years ago, of course, because of the unlikelihood of ever really catching them—but they had showed Neil how possible it was. And Neil didn't need to look through all of time, just a single city.

He had never done this before, but then—Jumping was instinct to Neil. Finding Andrew was a bad habit. He knew he could do this; he just needed to convince himself first.

The sky lightened, just a touch, and then some more. When he could see where the darkness of the city ended, Neil dropped the note in his palm, and pushed himself up. It was time to find Andrew. The first sliver of burning orange sun rose in the sky. Neil closed his eyes, thought of Andrew, and Jumped.

He landed in an empty building, just lit enough for Neil to see. It was after dark, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows he could see the moon in the distance, and lights. Andrew was sitting by one of these windows on the floor, smoking, and Neil raised his head as he turned to look at him.

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," Andrew said.

Neil stood his ground, not going closer or farther. From here he could just barely make out Andrew's shape, all in-black in the darkness, but he could see tiny points of light in his eyes, pale gray skin, the orange tip of a lit cigarette, glinting teeth.

"Why?" he asked. "Am I late?"

As he said it, he realized he _was_. His aim had been off—just by a minute, no more, but he was late all the same. It was almost funny to think about, but Andrew didn't seem to see it that way, and turned back to the window.

"You owe me some answers," Neil said when Andrew didn't move, didn't speak. Andrew didn't look at him.

"I _owe you_ nothing." It was a sneer at Neil's claim, his assumption that he was _owed_ anything. Neil shrugged, accepted this. He had not quite meant that he was _owed_. Andrew didn't have to give him anything, even now, even when he had called him here and left him with his head spinning. But Neil _wanted_ answers all the same.

"Fine. But you're the one who called me here— _you_ appeared to me, told me to leave Andrew alone, gave me a _note_ , and disappeared. Why, if not for answers?"

Andrew gave him a look. "Maybe I called you here to push you down."

Neil moved closer to the window, looking down, and realized where they were. They were on one of the higher floors of the Burj Khalifa, almost half a mile in the air. Neil was not afraid of heights, but this view—the sharp drop, the distance of the lights he could make out on the ground, made him feel vertiginous. He took a step back and swallowed, looked around until he spotted something else to focus on. Ash fell from Andrew's cigarette onto the floor.

"Maybe. But until you push me, I'm not buying it." Neil sat cross-legged before the window next to Andrew, then leaned back on his hands to look at him.

" _That_ is your problem, not mine."

Neil sighed, watching him. He was being distinctly uncooperative, but Neil didn't know what he had expected, coming here. He straightened, looking Andrew in the eye as much as he could with Andrew staring determinedly away from him.

"Will you answer my questions?" he asked instead.

"Depends on the question."

Neil took it as the best acquiescence he would get from Andrew, and began. "You're Andrew? And you're a Jumper?"

"Are you asking me or telling me? Yes."

Neil nodded, because that had been the easy part. "What is your present?" A Jumper could not—was not _supposed to_ , but also could not—travel into any point in time beyond their present. Neil could not Jump to 2014, because had he never Jumped away from home, he would not have lived it yet. If hey were in 2012, then that meant Andrew had to be from now—or the future. Was this an Andrew he had never met? What did it mean if they were from the same time? Neil's heart felt ready to stop.

"Don't I get a turn?"

Neil sighed. _Of course_ it wouldn't be that easy. Andrew's tone was mocking, but it was only fair, so he said, "Did you want one?"

"You're Neil Josten. And you're a Jumper." He stated it like a fact, not a question. Neil found himself nodding _yes_ , even though he knew he was being made fun of. What he had done to earn Andrew's taunting was beyond him, but maybe it was simply existing. He wouldn't put it beyond him.

"Yes," he said all the same. "What is your present?"

Andrew tutted quietly, and flicked some ash his way. "That wasn't a question."

"Are you _going_ to ask a question?"

Andrew looked at Neil this time, then visibly shrugged, a large gesture. "Not yet. I think I have you mostly figured out, but you can go ahead and ask. I'll take my _turns_ later." He didn't smile, but it looked like he wanted to. Neil felt choked, because he hadn't asked for this, he hadn't done anything to deserve this mockery, he wasn't—

He didn't say that Andrew didn't need _turns_. Neil would answer all of his questions no holds barred when he asked them, if he asked them. He just wanted his own answers, too.

" _What is your present_?" he insisted, and Andrew looked away.

"The 31st of March, 2014. What's yours?"

Neil let out a long breath. _Neil's time_ , or almost. He was a few days ahead of him, but that made no real difference. They were from the same time. What did that mean? "27th February, 2014." He pressed his lips together for strength, then continued, "Why did you tell me to stay away from Andrew in New York?"

"You know why."

Neil shook his head. "No, I really don't. _Why_?"

Andrew scoffed and put his cigarette out against the floor. When he turned to face Neil, his face was a mask. "Why did you go to New York? That wasn't your first time there. Why did you go back? For _Andrew_? "

Neil frowned, unsure. Was Andrew angry because he had returned for him? Was it because he couldn't stay away? Or did he think Neil was—what? Seducing him? Taking advantage of him? Somehow, it felt as though Andrew _knew_ Neil, or knew something about him. _Of course you do_. But how did he know what Neil would do? How did he know his name?

"I got to New York by mistake, I didn't know Andrew was going to be there." At Andrew's look, he continued, "The first time. I didn't plan on going back, either. It was just... a place to drink. And some company." And to just _look_ at Andrew, to be certain that this one was alive, to maybe talk to him. But saying that sounded odd, and he didn't want this Andrew to know how desperate he was for just a sight, a reassurance.

"And you kept returning even _knowing_ what you were doing to him?"

Neil's frown deepened. Whatever Andrew knew, whatever he thought or knew Neil had done, Neil wasn't aware of it yet. "What was I doing to him? I wasn't doing anything. I was just talking, I didn't—"

Andrew's eyes narrowed. "Do you expect me to believe that you don't know?"

"Don't know _what_?"

Andrew pushed off the ground and stood before him, eyebrows raised. Neil followed, staring down at him. He could feel his pulse in his ears. "Don't know what, Andrew?" he repeated, tone low.

Andrew offered him a hand, palm up. It was reminiscent of New York, except now Neil was less confused about the offer—but more, at the same time. He placed his own hand in Andrew's, and watched his fingers form a shackle around Neil's wrist. "Seeing is believing," he said, and when he Jumped he took Neil with him.

 

—

 

**_Winsford, 1812_ **

_Renee was the perfect conversationalist for Neil, someone who didn't monopolize the conversation, but also, somehow, didn't expect him to say much. Neil was almost enjoying himself as they sat together in one of the larger rooms, what looked like a library and music room combined. Instead of reading or playing, however, they were just sitting by the cushions at a large window, looking down at the gardens and talking. Renee had gathered that he didn't want to talk about the past, and he was doing his best to dodge all her references to people or places or things he didn't know, though it did make it difficult to pry into his past (well, his future, but it was the past to Renee) which was what Neil was trying to do._

_Foreknowledge was never allowed, but Neil lived with foreknowledge every time he met Andrew: that he was going to care for him, deeply, and that he was going to have to watch him die._

_He didn't know what was worse, caring for someone knowing they were going to die, or not even trying to save them after the fact, when he_ could _. Or—close enough._

_"And how was Bath when you left it?"_

_Neil shrugged, looking back out of the window. "The same as it always is," he said noncommittally. "Busy." He had never been to Bath, but he gathered any city would be busy, especially during Christmas._

_"Jean did say you haven't been the same since we left," she said, and it caught him so off-guard he looked back at Renee with more than a little surprise. She must have mistaken his surprise at being for something else, because she continued, "We are neighbors here, Neil. We talk. It isn't all about you, but some is."_

_He hadn't realized, somehow, that he may have known this Jean, Mr. Moreau. When Renee had—come to his rescue, so to speak, yesterday, she had been formal enough even in a different language that he didn't think she recognized him. He had assumed she really thought he was related to Jean, and then he had assumed she had covered for him because she knew Neil._

_"I didn't realize," he said, and she gave him a warm, sad smile._

_"We worry."_

_Neil tried to smile back without looking pained about it. What had he done here to make all these people—not only Andrew, but also_ his wife _, also other people, this Jean—worry about him? What could he_ possibly _do? How many months had he spent here, would he spend here, for something like that to happen? The idea of strangers caring about him sounded like something from a fairy tale, a joke that even time travel wasn't the answer to, not really._

_"You don't need to," he said, though he had no way of knowing how true this was for future him. "I'm fine."_

_Renee only smiled. He thought of Andrew's mouth on his mouth, thought of his voice when he told Neil that he should have stayed away. Renee Walker clearly cared about Andrew, and about Neil, too. He should feel worse about kissing her husband, about, apparently, having kissed him in the past, too. Was that before they were married? Neil had no way to find out._

_He had asked Andrew about it, after seconds or minutes or hours of kissing him, until Neil was numb everywhere and Andrew's mouth was swollen. Andrew had lied down, and Neil had lied down next to him, and said, "You have a wife."_

_Andrew had scoffed. "We both know just how_ married _I am," he had said, though Neil did not. He hadn't asked about it again._

 _A dark closed carriage riding up to the house drew his attention, and Neil moved closer to look out the window as Renee did the same. "That's odd," she said softly, and gave Neil a careful look from the side. Neil pretended he didn't see it, and kept his eyes on the carriage. It looked fancy—all black, being led by tall white horses, with the emboss of a raven taking flight on its back. Neil hadn't seen many carriages like this one, but this one definitely looked_ more _than the ones he had seen yesterday._

_Behind them, the doors burst open, and Andrew entered, looking furious._

_"You didn't say they were coming." He stared at the two of them, and after a second realized the words were directed at him, not Renee._

_"I didn't know anyone was coming," he said, truthfully. Whoever it was clearly had Andrew out of sorts; he imagined if he had known who it was, he would have said. Renee looked half-reproachful, half-curious, but not in a good way. They both expected something from him, but Neil didn't know_ what— _he had no way to defend himself against these accusations, only the truth, but neither of them seemed to believe it._

_It was strange to see this: Andrew, knowing Neil, before Neil knew Andrew. Andrew—and Renee, he supposed—knew things about him, or about whatever stories he had spun here, that he didn't know himself. They knew his future, they just didn't know it was his future. It made him feel terribly unbalanced, and then, just a little sick, because wasn't this how it always was, but inversed? How did Andrew feel, to be known by a complete stranger? How was that ever fair to him? If anyone deserved this, it was Neil._

_"I really didn't know," he said again, but Andrew's face had settled into a stone mask of no expression, and Renee was taking his arm to lead him downstairs. They were all placed in a large drawing room by the time the guests were announced in, and Neil rose when Andrew did._

_"Mr. Day and Mr. Moriyama," the announcement came. Renee curtseyed as the two men walked in. The first was a tall man that Neil recognized as just Kevin. In another life, he had been Andrew's childhood best friend, and they had planned to travel the world together. In another life, he had looked into Neil's eyes over Andrew's dead body, and accused him of nothing._

_Him, Neil could look at, though not without more than a little guilt. It was when the second man emerged from behind him—Mr. Moriyama—that Neil froze._

_Riko._

_The oldest point in time he had ever met Andrew was 1566. Andrew worked on a Portuguese ship docking at Muscat for a few weeks, and Riko was a guest of the ship owners, here to see the world before he returned to Japan. He hadn't known Andrew for very long there—two or three weeks, maybe. He had liked Muscat, hadn't wanted to leave without seeing Andrew's ship away on the chance he wouldn't find him again._

_It had been enough. The day before they set sail, something had gone wrong. He hadn't seen it coming—Riko had said something to him, something undoubtedly terrible, and Andrew had snapped. The resulting fight, if it could really be called a_ fight _, saw Andrew stabbed. Neil didn't remember much of that day, but he did remember Riko laughing cruelly as Andrew bled, and bled, and bled. Neil's hands had been red by the end of it._

_And now here he was again._

_He looked surprised to see Neil there, but his eyes glinted dark and snakelike, an expression Neil wasn't comfortable with at all. He was frozen to the spot, his feet caught in ice. What was_ he _doing_ here _?_

_"Neil," he said, all easy familiarity, and Neil stiffened. "What a surprise to see you here! You didn't mention you were coming here—you could have joined us."_

_Andrew shot him a look out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing._

_"It was a sudden decision," he said, only just unclenching his jaw. "Not planned."_

_Riko's answering smile was a shark's. Neil didn't know him, but he could see the fury clear on his face. Beside him, Kevin looked uncomfortable. Afraid._

_"That's a pity," Riko replied, still smiling, and turned to face Renee in a move that was manufactured to be dismissive. Andrew was a bowstring pulled taut beside him, ready to strike out and hit something. Neil caught his eye on purpose and shook his head, and hoped he understood whatever Neil was trying to communicate. Maybe, after Riko left, he would explain._

_Maybe, then, he'd get his answers, too._

 

—

 

**New York City, 1956**

They landed by a port, well-hidden behind large crates being unloaded from a trade vessel. The second they were steady on two feet, Andrew let go of Neil's hand, keeping his own to his side. Neil looked around at the people in colorful dresses, at small stalls set up calling out items for sale, at the ships, everything from large steamships to smaller fishing boats in the bay.

"We're in New York," he said, keeping his voice down. The city was not the important part, though. It was the year: 1956, the year of Andrew the bartender. Why would Andrew bring him here after telling him to stay away? "What are we doing here?"

"I'm showing you something," Andrew said cryptically, and continued watching one spot through the crates. Neil frowned, opened his mouth again, but Andrew shook his head. "Your first time in New York. What was the date?"

It had been two months since Neil's first visit here, to this year. He had been tired and upset, more than _upset_ —and he had seen Andrew and disappeared. In total, he might have been in the city for twenty minutes between Winsford and Charleston. Most wouldn't remember the month or year, let alone the date, but Neil wasn't _most_. Remembering the exact dates and times of Jumping and landing was something his mother had drilled into him, a survival tactic: no city twice, no time twice, _never_ forget how long ago anything was. Any other Jumper could forget, but not Neil. It was second-nature to note them in his mind, if not consciously.

"June. 8th, I think." There was no _I think_ about it.

Andrew nodded, like he knew this already. It was possible he _did_. "And what's today?"

That one was easier. "June 9th. Where are you going with this?"

Andrew inclined his head toward a steamer that had evidently just docked. Passengers were descending the stairs, some holding up bags, some smiling and waving. Neil watched, nonplussed, for a full minute as more passengers continued to descend, dissipating into the crowd. Just as he was about to open his mouth to ask once more what this was about, Andrew said in a whisper, "There."

Neil's stomach bottomed out.

As the crowd vanished, Neil saw someone standing there, looking around with wide-eyes. He had a death grip on a small red suitcase, and his other hand was pressed to his mouth. The expression of complete _awe_ on his face was new, but the rest of the features were the same. Neil was looking at—himself.

"That's me," he said, his voice shaking so hard he thought it might crack. There was a stone in his throat, blocking his windpipe, his ability to breathe. He knew what this meant—knew it, _knew_ it, because this man was younger than Neil was, and Neil had never boarded a ship, Neil had never had a suitcase to hold on to, Neil had never looked at New York (at anything) with that kind of wonder in his eyes.

"No," Andrew said. "That's Neil."

Andrew's hand was on his arm abruptly, holding him up, and Neil was grateful for it, not sure how long his own legs would have supported him. Andrew looked unfazed by this development, but then, Andrew had already known. Neil had not. There was another him—another _version_ of Neil in New York, in the very same year as there was another version of Andrew. He wasn't him the same way that _this_ Andrew wasn't the same man as the one in the bar. And yet, he was here, and he was real.

What was he? A reincarnation, the way Andrew was? A single, separate entity, or one in a chain of many who would die, pointlessly and cruelly?

Andrew Jumped, and the two of them landed elsewhere in New York, this time by a balcony of some sort. The Jump was enough to shake Neil into the now, and he looked down at Andrew. He was impassive, unimpressed.

"There's another Neil here. What does that mean?"

Andrew pointed to a window on the other side of a narrow alley. They had landed in a very precise location; clearly Andrew knew where he was going. He had been here before, Neil could tell. He didn't know what to make of that just yet, but he didn't want to think about it before he had time and solitude, so he looked to where Andrew was pointing.

The open window showed to a small room with two tiny cots in it. Neil was on one of them, paging through a book with intense concentration. The other cot held a tall man who seemed asleep. The whole scene felt surreal to Neil, felt like watching himself, but also not. For a second, he just watched them, his finger tracing the words as he mouthed them. Neil couldn't see what the book was, but Neil seemed to be _practicing_.

The man Neil had thought was asleep abruptly turned to face Neil—surreal—and said something in German. The balcony was close enough that Neil could hear him, faintly, but not clearly enough to make out his words. He turned questioningly to Andrew, who obliged.

"That is Neil's roommate, Erik. He's inviting him to the bar for drinks with his friends. He's asked him this before, but Neil always says no."

"The bar," Neil said. "Andrew." Neil thought of Andrew's cousin, of his boyfriend who had stayed behind to keep his new roommate company. He thought of _always trying to smooth out his accent_ , of _fucking Pole_. This boy may look like Neil, but he wouldn't sound like him, didn't dress like him. What happened when he, one day, agreed to accompany Erik to the bar? "What happens if he _does_ go? What happens if he meets Andrew?" he asked.

Andrew had not let go of his arm. Instead of answering, he Jumped once again, this time to three weeks after Neil's last trip to the bar. They were standing two blocks away from it, though, in a dark alley, and Neil frowned. From here, they wouldn't be able to see anything that happened at the bar. "Andrew?" he asked again, eyebrows raised. "What _happens_?"

"You're stupider than you look, Neil," Andrew said, then pointed across the street, where the other Neil and Erik were, probably, on their way to the Fir Tavern. "No one can meet two of the same person, it's not possible. You and I, Jumpers, we're anomalies, but we're connected to— _them_ , somehow. Andrew to Andrew, Neil to Neil. So when one Andrew tries to meet two Neil's," he made a clicking sound with his tongue, all disapproval, and pointed once again to a point further down the street. Hidden around a corner, two men in impeccable suits pulled out what looked like large, dangerous guns. Then they waited. Neil and Erik walked on, safe in their ignorance.

"No," Neil said under his breath.

" _Yes_ , Neil," Andrew gritted out. "We can't have one man meet two of the same person, it's against the very laws of nature. So what happens when they almost do?"

One of the men in the masks said something in a language Neil recognized as Polish. The other Neil froze, and the men emerged from the alley. Erik tried to come between Neil and the men, but there was nothing he could do.

"No," Neil repeated the only word that was going through his mind. No no no _no no no_ —

There was a shot. Neil crumpled. Erik shouted. The men ran. People from three different shops pushed open their doors at the noise. By now, the men in the masks were shooting wildly, as if to create a confusion of bodies. Andrew stepped out of the bar. Neil heard ringing in his ears that had nothing to do with the screams. Andrew's grip on his arm had tightened to the point of pain. More shots. Three people went down, one bartender among them. Neil felt numb.

Andrew said, "The timeline fixes itself."

 

—

 

**_Winsford, 1812_ **

_Riko and Kevin stayed for nearly an hour, making excuses to elongate their_ chat _while at the same time seeming absolutely uninterested in it. Kevin barely spoke, but Riko and Renee somehow kept the conversation going. By the end of it, Neil was absolutely exhausted, and had almost no idea what they had spoken of. Somehow, paying attention in this conversation—and he had had to pay attention, as Riko kept redirecting the conversation to him—was not the same as actually remembering it._

_"We will be staying at Jean's place, Mrs. Minyard, if you wish to call on us," Riko said, smiling pleasantly. Andrew's mouth curled unpleasantly at this, and Neil raised an eyebrow. Riko was the first person to refer to Renee as Mrs. Minyard. It meant something, but the specifics were lost to Neil, an outsider to this time._

_"I believe Mr. Moreau is in London for Christmas," Renee said, politely. If the misnaming had bothered her, she gave no sign of it._

_Riko gave a look that was barely polite, one which Neil had seen at intervals the entire time he had been here. Clearly he didn't like Renee, or Andrew. Why he was here, why he had stayed here a whole hour, to speak to them, was beyond Neil. "I'm aware," he said._

_Renee began to say something, but what exactly was lost to Neil as Kevin grabbed his arm roughly, the image of a friendly slap on the shoulder, but really a message. "You shouldn't have come here." He sounded angry, but he also sounded afraid._

_Before Neil could ask so much as a_ why _, Kevin was gone. Riko turned to Neil and clapped a hand on his shoulder as he left. He smiled his shark's smile again, and said, "Do call on us while you're here,_ brother _."_

_Neil was frozen to the spot as Riko walked away._

_Brother._ Brother?

 _Why would he—_ why _would he say—_

_The door pulled shut, and Andrew turned to face him with rage in the curl of his mouth. "Why didn't you say they were coming?"_

_Renee looked apologetically at him. All he could think was_ brother, brother _. This man had killed Andrew. Not here, not yet, not now, not this Riko or this Andrew, but he_ had _, and Neil had watched, and he had laughed. And now—_ brother _._

 _"I don't—why did he_ say _that, he's not—"_

 _"You_ knew _they were coming," Andrew spat out, and Neil shook his head. He hadn't known anything, nothing at all. He hadn't known Andrew, hadn't known Renee, hadn't known how it felt to be pressed into the wall by a man wearing suspenders, hadn't known Riko would be here, hadn't known he had been here before, or that he would be here before._ Brother _._ _What could Neil possibly do, knowing Riko Moriyama, that would make him call him brother?_

 _"I didn't want this. You have to believe me," he said, looking up. "I didn't want this." He had never wanted_ any _of this. All he wanted was—what? What had he expected, really? A holiday? A few days in pleasant England before he was off to the next place, as though he wasn't being haunted by lives he couldn't save?_

 _He couldn't do this, though. It didn't matter who he was in the future, didn't matter what made him call Riko_ brother _. He would simply never return to 1812, he would just stay away, make all of this never happen, and one day when he was old enough or far enough, this timeline would dissolve. Unclean, and he would never really forget it as he would if he Jumped away, but he couldn't risk perpetuating it like that. This would make a paradox, but he was a Jumper._

_And he didn't care._

_"I have to leave," he said._

_Andrew was on him in an instant, hands at his collar, shaking him. "You should have known better than to come back, Josten. You're not leaving."_

_Neil shook his head. He could still feel Andrew next to him on the bed, kissing him. He could still feel Andrew in his arms, dying. "You don't understand, I_ have _to leave."_

 _"Is this because of Riko?" Andrew asked, and Neil let out a hollow laugh. It_ was _, and_ how _—but Andrew didn't know that. Andrew couldn't know that. "Riko is_ nothing _. We've dealt with him before, Neil. We can do it again." Andrew pressed a set of keys into his open palm, closed his fist around them. They were large and silver, jangling brightly, a happy sound. "These are yours," he said. Neil stared. "You know they are. I told you in Bath that if you came here, it was going to be for good—and you're here, so_ stay _."_

_Neil looked up to Andrew._

_Andrew in Muscat had also told him to stay. It had been funny then, because Andrew was leaving. Neil had joked that he would miss him. Andrew had snapped back that he should stay where he was, and Andrew would be glad to see the back of him._

_He had to go._

_"Neil," Andrew said, and though there was nothing in the word or his voice, his tone made it almost a plea. "Stay."_

_Neil ran, and ran, and ran. He thought he heard Andrew saying his name, or whispering his name, or shouting it, but it was such an un-Andrew thing to do that he felt sure he was imagining it. Somewhere between the house and the bridge, he dropped the keys, but he kept hearing the sound of them as Andrew pressed them into his palm, kept feeling the cold metal—_ him _, a stranger, someone who had never even met him before—and then he kept hearing_ stay _, and_ brother _, and—_

_Neil Jumped._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I realize it's been simply ages since I last updated this, and I have no excuses. I'm a slow writer, and even slower without feedback, and it's an endless cycle really. So, I wanted to finish writing the rest of the fic before I posted this chapter so that this kind of delay doesn't happen again. The last chapter is just about halfway done by now, though, so here's chapter trois of five, and the next two are a-coming, and (hopefully) soon! 
> 
> Thank you very much once again to everyone who's been kudos-ing, commenting or bookmarking—seeing your comments keeps me going! Find me on tumblr to generally yell at me at [neilexysts](http://neilexysts.tumblr.com/)!


	4. and i can't breathe with the dust of retreat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dubai, 2012. A negotiation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title lyrics from [A Sea Chanty of Sorts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eqfiu1FJMaA), by Margot and the Nuclear So and So's

His Jump was careless, distracted, and Andrew and Neil landed very very far from Dubai and the year they were going toward. They were in a back alley, which stank of cat and old trash, and Neil pressed his palm to a wall as he dry heaved over the ground. Andrew watched impassively, and Neil was ridiculously grateful for being the one to Jump. He couldn't have done this on the pristine floors of the Burj Khalifa. Here, amidst the squalor of an alley, he was perfectly comfortable gagging.

He could even pretend it was because of the smell, not because of what he had just seen.

What he had just _learned_ , really, because this was about more than watching Neil die, watching Andrew die. This was about knowing that he was responsible for Andrew's death. Not in an indirect way, like Muscat and the ranch, not in a roundabout way, but _directly_. Every single time. Every single time they met, Neil became responsible for Andrew's dying. Time, accounting for the errors he was creating.

In some world where he, a liar and a Jumper (a thief), didn't play with time, Andrew Minyard met Neil Josten, and Andrew Minyard didn't die.

He turned to Andrew, who had let go of his arm now, apparently certain that Neil wasn't going to Jump away, not now. He was wrong—maybe he had known other Neils, too, but they weren't him. They couldn't run like he did, and maybe they hadn't needed to.

But Neil could and did, and was going to. He felt like he was being torn apart from the inside out, and this was worse than with his mother, worse than running forever, worse than being Neil Josten, liar, false. At least before this, he had had something _happy_ with Andrew in the in-betweens. Before he died, but after they met. Singing on the Lorelei and secrets on the stairs. Now every one of those memories was tinged with knowledge: that it was _because_ of these things, because Neil had these little in-betweens, that Andrew had to die.

They had been treasures, but now they were blood money, stealing from Andrew's very existence.

He felt sick.

"15th of September, same time, same place," he said. If he gave Andrew the tools to find him again, the promise of returning, he couldn't begrudge him the running away, could he?

Andrew made a face like he could absolutely begrudge him the running away, but Neil Jumped anyway.

 

—

 

Neil landed in Dubai at the exact minute this time, 0 seconds past 0 minutes past 0 hours on the 15th of September. Andrew was already there, waiting for him—or maybe not waiting for him, but sitting here nonetheless, watching the city through the glass, smoking.

"Why did you show me that?" Neil asked without wasting time, because there was no time to waste.

Andrew gave him a long look. His expression was calm, and it went against the urgency Neil was burning with, that Neil had to move away from where he was standing. It felt as though he was made of energy, a tension given to him by knowledge, and the only way to relieve himself for a little while, for a few seconds, was to speak—to move—to do _something_.

"Would you have believed me otherwise?"

Neil started to shake his head _no_ , then stopped. "I would have," he said, and let out a breath that felt like it would suffocate him. He _would_ have. It was not easy to believe—that there were dozens of Neils as well as dozens of Andrews, scattered throughout history like so many copies of him; that they were _meant_ to meet, like trains on a colliding track; that this was more than just a joke time was playing on him. None of it was _easy_ to believe, but the minute he had seen the other Neil, he had understood.

If Andrew had not shown him the truth, he might have taken longer to come around, but he wouldn't have kept himself in denial for very long.

"I would have," he repeated.

Andrew shrugged, a lazy gesture. "You wouldn't have understood it."

Neil frowned, then marched over to Andrew in three quick steps and towered in front of him. In the dark, Andrew's face was lit only by the pale moon, and he looked blue and glowing, not quite real. But he was the only real thing here. Something in Neil's chest gave a pang, but Neil forced himself not to look away.

"Understand like _you_ understand it?" The accusation was there: _you have seen this before_. Maybe, just maybe, Andrew had _lived_ this before. Met Neil (and Neil, and Neil) as he had met Andrew (and Andrew, and Andrew), and then watched him die as Neil had watched Andrew die. And then, one day, somehow, he saw the both of them, and everything made sense—and everything was ruined.

"Yes," Andrew said.

Neil sat, tired of towering. He did not have the strength to take the high ground, be it moral or any other. After what he had just learned, he didn't think he had the right, either. He wanted answers, but he was not owed them. He had only wanted Andrew to be alive, but he had caused his death with his half-desperation to see him, to talk to him. What did that make him?

Why had he done it?

He was so tired.

"So what do you want me to do?"

Andrew did not give him a pitying look, but he did not give him a sympathetic one either. He simply looked. Neil knew he was not going to like whatever Andrew said, though, of course, he already knew. He had heard the words and known what Andrew wanted since he came here, or maybe since he watched Neil Josten die. He was only waiting to hear them from Andrew, a confirmation or an order.

"I want you to take it all back."

 

—

 

Neil had never enjoyed being told what to do. In the years he and his mother had spent on the run, she had ruled over every part of his life, and for most of it that had grated. Doing as he was told did not come _naturally_ to him—his first instinct was always to fight command, even when he knew that what she said was probably best for him. He had rebelled in his own little ways, Jumping a little harder, snapping his fingers a little recklessly, insisting on staying here or going there. It rarely ever worked, but it had given him a nice illusion of attempting to get his own way.

But this.

"I'm not going to, you know," he told Andrew as he lounged, back pressed to a viewing stand. "Take it back. Erase it." Andrew raised his eyebrows at him, asking a wordless question. "It's too much. I know I shouldn't have gone to them—I _realize_ what it means, but... I can't. I can't just make it have _never happened_ , Andrew."

"Why not?" Andrew asked, as though he didn't understand what exactly Neil would be erasing. But then, maybe he didn't. Maybe all he had seen was Neil Josten killing other Andrews, and decided that he didn't want his _past selves_ , to die like—this. Wrongly, pointlessly, cruelly.

"Why do you want _me_ to? Why find me and make me do this? Why not just Jump back yourself? You could have never met any of them, problem solved. You wouldn't even know they exist," he ground out, his irritation a stretching thread inside him. Any second now, and _snap_.

Andrew responded to Neil's anger with nothing more than a bored look, and somehow that was even worse than if Andrew had responded with the violence that came so easily to some of him. Neil wanted to fight, wanted to rage against the sheer _unfairness_ of it all, and Andrew wasn't letting him. "Because it wouldn't make a difference."

Neil stared at him, waiting. "Wouldn't it?"

Andrew shook his head. "If just one of us undoes this, it makes no difference. If you don't Jump back, then Andrew still meets you before he meets the other Neils. He dies again, like every single time you've seen it happen, and maybe you're willing to live with that, but the other Neil dies too because you can't stay away. _That_ is not your call to make."

He said it casually, like this was all just about fairness. It wasn't: to Neil, it was about Andrew. To Andrew, it was about Neil.

"You want to save his life—their lives. Not the other Andrews, the other Neils." Andrew said nothing. Neil tried again, "You care for them." Still nothing. Neil shook his head and pursed his lips together, and thought of this Andrew, and what it must have been like for him to watch Neil die. He knew that this man would not be the same as any one of the others he had met, but he couldn't help but think of how few people Andrew had ever had around him—how harsh he was with them, keeping them all at arm's length just so it wouldn't make a difference if they went away. Sometimes he had brought his arm down to let Neil through, and Neil had killed him.

But what about _him_? Had he brought his arm down? Had he let Neil in, and then watched him die?

The idea of Andrew having to see any kind of loss, of Andrew in pain, was terrible to Neil, whether it was this one or any other. The problem was that taking away that pain, the pain that might only exist in his mind, was also to forget about Andrew entirely.

He tried again: "How can you stand to let him go? If you actually cared for him, then why would you want to forget him?"

This one elicited some response, and Neil watched as Andrew's face twisted with what looked like fury in the dim light before smoothing out again, a perfect mask of nothing. "Oh, Neil. Ever one to _cling_ on, even when they want you to let go. Do you think Andrew will thank you for letting him die?"

It stung, but that was because it was true. "Do you think Neil will thank you for forgetting him?"

"He's dead," Andrew said, which in the end was the only remaining fact. Neil abruptly felt sorry for arguing, even though his reasoning was perfectly logical. Going back to before Andrew was—not an option, for Neil. This was not _giving in_ , he told himself, it was a temporary ceasefire.

"How many?" Neil asked instead, moving on his hands to the window where Andrew leaned. He pressed a shoulder to the glass, which was somehow warm despite it being the middle of the night. "How many did you watch die? Not counting New York."

"How many Andrews?"

He wouldn't get his answer unless he answered first, and so he said, "Nine. Not counting New York." Then he leaned his head back on the glass and closed his eyes, laughed. "Though I only saw eight of them die." _Winsford_. He had thought that this Andrew might be connected to what happened in Winsford, but now he suddenly had an alternate answer. He didn't know what he liked worse: the idea that he had doubled back into his own timeline and met someone out of order, or the idea that he had been mistaken for the period-appropriate version of himself.

"Eight of them dead, and you'd rather have them stay that way than undo it all."

Neil turned his head and blinked his eyes open. It was a provocation, a way out of answering Neil's question, and he knew it. But he was still out of sorts, a lit spark. He didn't want to know what happened when he exploded. Neil didn't like his temper—didn't like how on edge it made him feel, how something just made his vision expand and his chest stretch, didn't like how his hands itched for something to do, how his words seemed to pull apart and take control of him until he didn't know what he said. He didn't remember his father very much, but in his mind, he looked just like him when angry.

He didn't want to argue.

"How many?" he asked again, and Andrew turned away, clenched his jaw.

"Six before I realized what was going on. New York was after."

 _Six_. Did they overlap with his ten? How had they died? The number was solid, a confirmation where before he had his own guesses. Six Neils to one Andrew—he must have watched them all die, too, before he found out about the other Andrews. Neil's stomach felt like a cavern, hollow and dull, and something of that must have shown on his face, because Andrew pushed away from the floor, clearly agitated.

"Andrew," he began, only to be met with furious head-shaking.

"Seventeenth, here," he snarled, and Neil stood up, one arm out to placate him, even though he knew that it wouldn't work. "No. No. _Be here_."

It was only fair. If Neil could simply disappear and expect Andrew to be here because he was having trouble coping, Andrew should be allowed to, too. He wasn't being asked permission, but he nodded all the same. He would be there.

Andrew snapped his fingers and disappeared, and Neil took a heavy step back into the glass. He'd be back here at midnight on the seventeenth, and he'd argue with Andrew again, and convince him not to do this. Or convince him that this was the better way. Maybe Neil _was_ clinging on, maybe it was selfish of him to want to keep this, but it was all he had.

He closed his eyes, bowed his neck, refused to feel guilty, and Jumped.

 

—

 

When Neil landed in the now-familiar spot by the windows, Andrew was lying on the ground, not smoking for once. Neil took up position near him, sitting legs-crossed, and leaned back on his elbows to look up at the sky too. It was a deep shade of blue, lit up only by the moon—whatever stars there were, he couldn't see them in this city. It was not exactly interesting watching, and Neil's eyes kept shifting over to Andrew, who was completely still, apparently interested in the unmoving, unchanging sky.

Maybe Andrew could see something there that Neil couldn't. He didn't know.

After an interminable length, Andrew asked, "Why are you here?"

"You told me to be here," Neil said, shifting so he was no longer leaning back on his arms.

Andrew rolled his eyes, said, "No, why are you _here_? You've already decided you don't want to Jump back, so why keep coming here? You could just disappear, and it could take me years to find you again." In a lower tone, he continued, "Who knows how many more you'll have killed then."

Neil couldn't help it; he winced. He hadn't _wanted_ —still didn't want to hurt Andrew. None of them. And if he couldn't change the fact that he was _responsible_ for Andrew's dying, then he could change—the future. Other lives, maybe. He could stop, stop running into Andrew, stop sticking around whenever he saw him, stop trying to talk to him and stop trying to keep him alive.

Neil had been whittled down to a ghost of a person a long time ago: first a home, then a life, then his mother. He was nothing, not someone running from his life, not really an explorer, not— _anything_. All he had was Andrew, the space in-between meeting him and his death. But Andrew was real, and maybe every Andrew had (was meant to have) another Neil, and maybe that Neil was real, solid, and maybe that Neil had a life and a purpose and _something_.

And Neil was used to giving things up.

"I wouldn't," Neil said. "I wouldn't—I'm not going to _look for him_ , I'm not going to _kill him_. Not anymore. I didn't _know_ , Andrew." He felt desperate, because he had never wanted to disappoint Andrew, and this may not be the man he had known but he was _him_ all the same, and he needed him to know.

"So why are you here?" Andrew sneered at him, keeping his eyes on the sky. It wasn't a challenge, but it felt like one to Neil.

"Maybe I want you to convince me. Maybe I want to convince you out of this."

"Isn't saving them good enough for you? What exactly are you going to do if you _convince me out of this_?"

In Berlin, Andrew had asked him, a mirror to his own question: _if you could go anywhere in the world, where would you_? Neil still didn't know. (In Dundee, he had asked Andrew this, a mirror of a mirror, and Andrew had asked him back: _you're the Jumper_. Neil had said, _a rock in the German Confederation_ , though the German Confederation hadn't existed at the time. It was not quite a lie.)

"I don't know," he said, a confession.

Andrew turned at this, eyebrows raised, and asked, "You won't look for them, but you won't help them, either. Running seems to be your style, but I've never known Neil Josten to run from the consequences of his own actions."

Neil laughed, hollow and painful. "Haven't you?" He had left Andrew's body lying in the dirt more times than he cared to think of. He wasn't real, but they had been, and he had always run from the sight. "Convince me, Andrew."

"Maybe I'm not interested in convincing you. _Andrew_ isn't enough for you?"

Neil shook his head. "Almost every Andrew I've met is dead," he said, meeting Andrew's eyes. "He doesn't care, and I'm not going to hurt the living. If I do this, it's not going to be just for him." It wouldn't be for himself, either. Neil had only things to lose by going back.

Andrew sat up and gave him an assessing look, then nodded. "What do you need to hear?"

Neil took a deep breath, told himself that this was only to buy time until he found a better solution, and said, "Tell me about Neil."

 

—

 

"Who was your first?"

Andrew looked unsurprised, like he had been expecting this question. It was possible he had, because Neil had been dying to ask it for days now, to learn where Andrew had begun, and they were both excellent at reading each other. A side-effect of knowing copies over centuries, he supposed.

"Johannesburg, 1983."

 _Johannesburg_. Neil had been to South Africa thrice in his life: twice with his mother, in different cities for a few weeks each, and once on his own. It had been a short trip, only two days, and had ended badly.

"I've been. It was short." Andrew's unasked question sat between them in his raised eyebrows, expectant. Neil answered, "Berlin, 1845."

Andrew thought about it for a second, as though going through a mental catalog, then said, "I've never been to 1845."

Neil shrugged. He didn't have to know the answer—or, perhaps he did, but not just at the moment. He knew _why_ , now. Somewhere in Berlin there must have been another Neil that Andrew had nearly met, and just so that he wouldn't, he had died. He didn't need to know the specifics, and he _definitely_ didn't want to compare himself to Neil. They were not him, and he was not them, and they were far more real than he knew how to be.

"Rijeka, 1675," he said.

Andrew answered, "Little village near the Čabranka. I don't think it had a name"

 _The Čabranka._  He and Andrew had passed it just before they ran into the _orta_. "Was he trying to escape to Italy? Get to the coast, find a boat, something like that?" Andrew raised an eyebrow, then nodded. That would have brought him to Rijeka, where he would have met Andrew. Except—Andrew had left. North, instead of east, to his death. They would never have met. "What did you do?"

"I convinced him to stay put. It was safer than trying to cross borders, and there were constant patrols near the area." It sounded like an excuse, the same sort Neil had made to himself countless times in Bari. Neil laughed hollowly.

"I told Andrew to leave. He was planning on staying in Rijeka until he could pay for a boat, but I thought it would be safer to leave immediately. I spent months trying to convince him."

"And you came north."

Neil nodded. "We ran into a patrol." The image of Andrew being cut down hadn't left him, and Neil felt something hollow eat at his stomach at it. That was the first death Neil had blamed himself for, if not the only one, because it had felt like _his fault_. Andrew wouldn't have died if he hadn't listened to him.

Except, he would have. Neil had guaranteed his death just by meeting him. If he hadn't convinced him to escape northward instead of across the water, then Andrew might have never come close to the other Neil—or would he? How long would the other Neil have stayed in his village? If he was anything like Neil himself, not long.

Andrew gave Neil a look. He said, "He would have died anyway. He met you."

"Is that supposed to be helping me?" he asked, surprised at the attempt.

Andrew gave him a look, and Neil stopped his half-smile before it had begun. "It was supposed to remind you that your stupidity extends past any attempts to _save_ him." Neil nodded and looked out the window at the pinpricks of street lights, and the smaller moving lights from cars. If you squinted, it might be a busy sky. Andrew continued, "Cotton plantation in Mississippi, 1747. Neil was an Jacobite prisoner."

"No idea," Neil said, and then, "Near San Antonio, 1883. A cattle ranch." He smiled, and continued, "Andrew the cowboy."

Andrew frowned. "That isn't funny."

"It was a little funny. He wore the hat, you know. I even saw him lassoing once." He was only lying a little; he had never seen Andrew lassoing, hadn't spent much time around him while he was on the job, but he _had_ worn the hat. Even at the time it had been one of the funniest things he had ever seen.

Andrew looked annoyed at being made fun of, even though it wasn't _him_ Neil was laughing at. "Was it still funny when he died?"

Neil's smile vanished, and he turned his face away from Andrew's. "No," he said. "No, it wasn't."

 

—

 

Neil Jumped to their floor at a little past midnight, stumbling in with a box of pizza in his hands. Andrew raised an eyebrow at him, and Neil shrugged in response. "I get hungry," he said, setting the box on the floor between the two of them.

It was partly true; the other part was that since Andrew had revealed to him exactly what he did every time he met another Andrew, what he condemned them to, he was eternally paranoid. The very sight of that _shade_ of blond, no matter where it was in a crowd, no matter how far away, always left him reeling, on edge. He couldn't do it again; he couldn't be responsible for _another_ Andrew's death, not now that he knew what the very sight of him, what his presence, did to them.

"Do you do nothing in between leaving here and Jumping back here?"

Neil sent him a flicker of a grin. "Aren't you the one who told me to stay away from Andrew?"

"Are you telling me that _this_ is because you're listening to what _I_ say?" Andrew looked so incredulous that Neil couldn't help but smile for real, and he looked down into his pizza to hide it. Andrew seemed to take issue with his good humor, because he turned away, face remarkably free of emotion.

"Where were we?" Neil asked a few minutes later, and Andrew turned to him with a look that was all disdain.

"We were discussing the details of Neil's death," he said.

Neil raised his eyebrows, trying not to let the statement faze him. Andrew was unsettled right now, possibly because of his good mood—possibly he had never seen Neil cheerful before, or he didn't want him to be. Maybe, to Andrew, he wasn't allowed to be cheerful while other Neils were dead, and him not cooperating in Andrew's attempt to save them.

"Is that all?" he asked.

Andrew all but growled, his eyes flashing dangerously. For all that he flaunted that Neil was dead and Andrew was dead, he didn't seem to like it being returned to him the same way: casually, to hurt. Neil hadn't meant to hurt, though. "I don't know what it is about this that you find amusing."

Neil frowned. He was poking a beast he didn't want to wake, not really, but he had spent too much time in the last few days being miserable. Feeling moderately okay, _good_ even, was rare—rare enough that he wanted to keep it for a while. This was not real _happiness_ , he knew in some part of his mind. This was a little like being in shock, a state of being so desensitized to everything around him that nothing was terrible anymore. "Nothing about this is amusing."

"I understand now," Andrew said, biting. "The reason you don't want to Jump back. Because all of this is a joke to you."

Neil did his best not to laugh, because none of this— _none of this—_ was funny at all. He could feel his good mood draining out of him with every word Andrew said, which was probably his exact purpose in saying it. "I'm here. I told you to convince me."

"You won't Jump because you don't care that they're dead. Andrew, Neil. You don't care that you are responsible for it."

"Is that what you think?" Neil asked, unable to help himself.

"What other reasons are there? You _love them_ too much to forget them?"

Neil could feel his stomach dropping. He _did_ —he loved Andrew. He had admitted it to himself a long time ago, but would never say it out loud, would never use that as an excuse. Falling in _love_ —the word, the _idea_ that he loved him, had been a mistake the second it had entered his head. It wasn't a secret; it was a chain around his ankles.

"Why haven't you Jumped yourself, then? Why not just go back and make it so you've never met Neil? You could absolve yourself of any guilt. They'll still be dead, but you won't know they exist, and it'll all be my fault anyway. And I think this is funny, so it shouldn't matter too much to me." Andrew said nothing, and Neil, fueled on by something gnawing at him, continued, "But you're not in this for your own guilt. You're doing this to save him. To save Neil. And you can't do that unless I Jump, too."

Andrew said, "I don't make a habit of regretting my decisions. What's your reason? You don't want to _save Andrew_? You'll try, but not when you're the one who stands to lose? You want me to answer your questions, but you haven't answered me on this one thing so far."

Neil swallowed, and wished he had brought water—wished he hadn't come here with food, wished he hadn't come here in a good mood, wished he hadn't come here at all. But where else was there to go? "I tried to save someone, once," he gritted out. "It didn’t work."

"It's different," Andrew said, but it didn't feel different. If he closed his eyes and thought about it, he would be back there: gunshots and lights in the sky and smoke and chaos and his mother, dead. He would never be able to forget that, not in the mess of timelines he had made. But if he did this, he would forget all of Andrew. "We are erasing a lot more than one day or one night."

"It sounds like you're trying to convince yourself," Neil said, weary. "How can you be sure they will live after this? You might forget him for nothing."

Andrew gave him a short look. "It's not me I need to convince." He looked like he wanted to follow it up with something biting, but held his tongue—a ceasefire, maybe.

Neil nodded, gave in. "None of this is funny to me. But, you don't understand, Andrew. You didn't know me before—before Berlin, before I met him. I _can't_ go back to that. I won't." His mother's death had taken a toll on him like nothing ever before. She had been—not his reason for living, maybe, but the only thing that made him real. Without her he was a ghost, a shadow of a person, unable to run and unable to stop and unable to breathe without smelling smoke. Finding Andrew had been a blessing and a curse, but at least then he had something to—to what? To look forward to before Andrew died?

Every second that he sat in Andrew's presence now, he was sent further in this direction. _Convince me._ The voice in his head was beginning to sound a lot like Andrew: regularly derisive. But Neil knew he couldn't do it.

"Then why did you ask me to convince you?"

Neil let out a half-laugh, shrugged. "I told you. I'm trying to convince you out of it."

Andrew clicked his tongue and met his eyes. "As you said so neatly before, my Jumping alone won't make a difference. You don't have to convince me out of it, because I can't do it on my own." Andrew paused, and frowned like admitting that had left a bad taste in his mouth. "You could just stop coming here. Your problem is solved."

Neil laughed. "I could, couldn't I? Run away. I could even get rid of any _guilt_ I might have by forgetting I ever met you. Jump back. Wouldn't it be easy?" Neil shook his head. "I wouldn't do that. I told you, I don't want to hurt Andrew any more than I already have."

"You also told me you don't know what you would do if you changed my mind," Andrew said. Neil nodded. "So you don't want to Jump back, you don't want to run away, you don't want to hurt Andrew. What _do_ you want, Neil?" He had no answer; he stared down at his hand, one covered in crumbs. "Nothing? Then tell me this: what exactly makes you so eager about these _delightful_ conversations that you don't do anything in between?"

He swallowed, feeling trapped. "Are you telling me you do?" he tried, and Andrew tutted.

"Answer the question."

"I can't go anywhere," Neil admitted, finally. "I'm paranoid. In the last year, more than that, I've been running into Andrew more and more frequently. It felt like—every time I Jumped, there was a fairly high chance I'd find him. I never tried to avoid him, I know, but it was a lot. It was too much, sometimes. The first time I stepped into New York, it was just a few minutes after I ran from somewhere else. I ran when I saw him." He looked up and found Andrew's eyes impassive. "I'm afraid that if I Jump, I'm just going to find another one. And I can't—even if I don't talk to him, don't go near him, he might see me. He might _die_." He looked around at the night-darkened building, at the city lights shining through the window. " _This_ is the only place I can be sure of." Andrew was the only person he could be sure of, too, but he didn’t say that.

"Why did you bring that?" Andrew asked, signaling the pizza with a jerk of his chin.

"I get hungry," he repeated, shrugging. "Don't tell me you don't."

"I eat elsewhere. I also go other places. I have better self-control than you."

Neil didn't deny it, because it was probably true. Neil's impulse control was terrible, and he knew it, or he wouldn't have returned to New York after he first left it, wouldn't have gone back into that bar. "I just... eat and sleep. Charleston, some kind of food, then back here."

"Charleston?"

"I have an apartment there, in 2014. My _present_. I know there aren't going to be any other Andrews there, because you're here." He couldn't help it; his lips twitched up into a smile, half a smile, a false smile. He could almost feel laughter bubbling up in his chest, ready to explode. Everything about this was terrible.

Andrew frowned, and after a second he leaned forward and half-into Neil's space. "I don't care what you do outside here or where you go, but listen to this. I will _not_ be your answer. I don't _care_ that you had nothing but Andrew and now you can't have him, but you won't use me as a replacement. I am not him, and _this_ is nothing more than getting you to Jump back with me."

His chest gave a sharp, harsh pang, because he _knew_ this, he knew it, and he didn't want—he hadn't thought, hadn't intended—or maybe he had. Maybe some desperate part of him that was terrified of losing what _little_ he had, had tried to make this Andrew a part of his cycle, make him the Andrew Neil had fallen in love with. Ten down, what was one more? He wouldn't even die.

And then there it was: that laughter. It burst out of him in what felt like a bark more than anything, and his chest shook and his arms hurt. He couldn't stop smiling. He pulled his legs up to his chest, pressed his head to his knees. Suddenly, Andrew's hand was there on his neck, pulling his head up to face him. He wished he could stop smiling, God, he wanted to just calm down. "I can't stop laughing," he said.

Andrew said, "Shut up."

Neil shut up. When his chest stopped shaking, he nodded to himself, pulled at his face. It seemed to be back under his control; the shock, the hysteria, whatever it was, had passed. "Andrew," he said, testing his ability to speech. When it worked, he continued, "I know. Trust me, I know."

 

—

 

When Neil arrived, Andrew was waiting for him, on his feet and one arm outstretched. Neil didn't take hold of it immediately—not after the last thing Andrew had shown him—and raised an eyebrow, going slowly closer.

"What do you want to show me?" he asked, one eyebrow raised. Hopefully the answer would not be further death—watching both Neil and Andrew die once, brutally and uselessly, had been enough for him.

"What they're losing."

Neil hesitated, half-certain of what Andrew was planning to show him, not sure he wanted to see it. Andrew was a planner—he had to be, if he had managed to take Neil to a balcony where he would be able to see Neil talking to Erik, if he'd managed to take them to the exact day Neil and Andrew had died, the exact hour. His aim must be spectacular; his planning thorough. He would have made sure before now that whoever he was about to show Neil, they weren't going to die. They were real. Did he really want to see two people who wouldn't die, knowing he was responsible for others who _did_?

The answer was, of course, no. But he knew what Andrew would say: that he was being selfish, that he was trying to blind himself to the facts. If Neil was going to insist on keeping Andrew dead, he had to know what he was losing. What he would have had, if not for Neil.

"Okay," Neil said, and closed his fingers loosely around Andrew's wrist.

Andrew Jumped.

They landed in a garden in seventeenth century France, somewhere near what would be Vienne one day. It was pleasantly cool after the mild heat of Dubai nights, and in the millisecond before he was quite in-place, he imagined he was here to relax, and thought it would be nice. Of course, it was impossible to relax knowing what he had come here to see, and he turned to Andrew with a questioning look.

Instead of answering, Andrew made a general pointing gesture, and Neil looked.

Andrew and Neil were at the edges of a hedge maze, on the inside looking out; an excellent angle for someone who didn't want to be seen. There was another set of Andrew and Neil in the distance, just close enough that he could see the expressions on their faces, but too far to hear them speak. They stood side-by-side, looking part of a larger group that Neil could hear in the distance, but separate. Whatever they were saying was low; even from this far away, he knew it would be too low for anyone else to hear.

It was odd to see this Neil; he was clearly a few years older than Neil himself was, with bright auburn hair that went far past his shoulders and curled. Andrew's hair was longer than Neil usually saw it, too, and it was almost funny to see him wearing a cape flung casually over his shoulder, a bright blue color that the Andrew standing next to him would _never_ wear. But that was just appearances; despite the ridiculousness, despite the fact that the two of them were doing nothing more than whispering between each other, something about the scene had Neil feeling like an intruder. It felt decidedly private, not meant for other's eyes—not even his.

Then Neil smiled at something Andrew said, and Andrew turned toward him a fraction, and Neil was suddenly very relieved he couldn't hear them, and he understood.

This was private not because of their posture—though now it looked very exclusive, very much a message to anyone around, if there had been, that they weren't welcome—and not even because of their expressions, not because they were whispering, but because they were _happy_. It hadn't been obvious before Neil smiled, but now that he could see it, couldn't _unsee_ it. They were both relaxed, standing at ease, and while they were whispering, there was nothing intense about it.

They were talking. They were worried about nothing; Neil looked like he might break out into a smile again any second now, like it was that easy. Neil could almost feel it clawing at his own face, the phantom of the uncontrollable laughter from that day, the pull on his cheeks that said _you must laugh_ even when he wanted to do the opposite. This wasn't that; this was genuine good humor.

Was that how happiness looked on his face? He couldn't even imagine it.

Even Andrew looked— _not tense_ , for lack of anything better to say. He was frowning lightly, but this was still the easiest he had ever seen him be. Neil had never seen the Andrew standing next to him that comfortable, and even if he tried, he could only come up with a single Andrew who had ever looked so comfortable, and he had met him in Dundee.

 _The Lorelei_. Neil closed his eyes, felt the old guilt and misery well up inside him like a fist closing around his ribs, and tried not to think of his voice, not to project it onto this Andrew.

"You are meant to watch this," Andrew whispered, low but clear in his ear, and Neil found himself nodding, opening his eyes. And as though he had timed it, before them Neil turned away for a second, laughing, and the scowl on Andrew's face broke away, as though he couldn't maintain it when no one was looking.

It hurt how happy they were—worse, it hurt because they were _allowed_ to be happy. They weren't going to die, not now, not because they had met. They were real, the both of them, and they were going to stay alive, and there would be no need for one to forget just for the other to live. Their life wouldn't be an either/or—it would be an _and_.

Andrew caught the other Neil's wrist in his own, and just as a wave of déjà vu passed over him, shocking in its strength for something he had never seen before (had he?), he pulled him down until he was looking him in the eye, and said something angrily. Neil positively beamed.

Neil turned to Andrew, surprised by how out of breath he felt. There was something bitter crawling its way up his throat. "Andrew," he whispered. "Please." He couldn't watch more of this.

"Done already?" Andrew mocked, and Neil nodded, feeling every inch like he was being scolded. He deserved this; he hadn't expected to be so overwhelmed, hadn't thought he would see them like this, so foreign and so _real_.

In the distance, Andrew looked suddenly up, as though he had heard something. Andrew pulled away in response, turning behind the hedge where they wouldn't be seen. Neil went with him, his wrist still caught in Andrew's hand—he hadn't even noticed—and waited for Andrew to pull away. But he didn't; he just stood there, back to the wall, staring at Neil. Like this, with his back pressed to the green and his hand holding Neil's, he looked caught anticipatory. No; he looked disapproving. No; he looked like an unasked question.

Neil looked away. Andrew's words rang in his mind: _this is nothing more than getting you to Jump back with me_ , and _you won't use me as a replacement_.

He hadn't wanted this. He hadn't lied when he said he knew. In their hiding place, he heard Neil's laugh float over to him and felt Andrew’s grip tighten, and he thought: he may be done ruining Andrew's life, but Andrew would never be done taking over his.

Andrew snapped his fingers.

 

—

 

"What do you think it is?" Neil leaned back onto his arms, a relaxed pose that thoroughly belied the churning in his stomach at the question. It had been on his mind for days, since Andrew took him to that garden, since he told him about the village near the Čabranka. Andrew gave him a _look_ that told him the question was not specific enough, and Neil clarified, "Why do they keep meeting? Andrew and Neil." Andrew stayed silent, and Neil, throat dry from asking, felt the need to keep talking. Keep going, explain himself, something.

"All those times I ran into Andrew—I always thought maybe it was just because _time_ was messing with me, but I don't know. Maybe I was thinking of him, subconsciously, and so I was taken to him, and maybe it was the same thing with you. But even if we weren't, why do _they_? Why are they supposed to, I don't know, run into each other? Across births or generations?"

"What are you trying to say?" Andrew asked after a minute of staring at him in silence, and Neil shrugged.

"Nothing. I don't know. Haven't you ever been curious about this? About _why_?" He was, though maybe curious was not the right word. Neil was too—too knowing to believe in something as silly and impossible as the concept of people _fated_ , or destiny. There were no greater forces; there was no real reason for two people to meet each other over and over in the course of lives, generations. And yet, they had. They did.

Andrew said, "Is there a point to this?" which was neither here nor there. Neil took it to mean _yes_ , but he didn't want to admit it.

"I was just— _thinking_. If we weren't Jumpers, would _we_ still have met?" And that was the real question, the one that had taken up inside his brain and was threatening to eat him alive. _This_ was more than just wanting to know; this was a question burned into his brain, a repetition: _what if, what if_ , and _would we still?_ What would it have been like? Neil, and Andrew, with none of this past between them. No history; just two people, meeting for the first time, like Berlin, except no secrets of Jumping and being from the wrong era, no lies. They wouldn't know each other like they did now, but—would they have learned? Would Andrew have shown any interest in a Neil he didn't want something from? (The answer, his brain said, was _yes_ ; after all, he had done it with another Neil in another time, unknowing, so why not this one, why not _him_ —)

They wouldn't have met as they had, with Andrew outside a bar warning him off. They wouldn't have sat together on the deck of a skyscraper, looking down at a city in the middle of the night, when the world felt like a quiet place, just them. But they might have... something. Like the others. Like the men in the garden, who had looked so careless and happy.

He couldn't help but imagine it, a ridiculous _what if_ that was never going to happen. The two of them, somewhere ordinary, a park or a mall or a library. Neil could get to know him as he had Andrew in Berlin, and Andrew would learn him in the twenty-first century, not in Johannesburg in the ‘80s. Maybe they would have sat on another staircase somewhere, talking, or spited each other over the counter of a bar—or maybe they wouldn't have been at each other's throats. Maybe one day Neil would have seen Andrew and his eyes would have caught on his hair or the line of his throat, and maybe one day Andrew would lean in and stare, but this time he would kiss him, and then—

It almost hurt to think about. Had he ever been _happy_ since Berlin? What was a Neil unburdened by the knowledge of Andrew's death? What did that leave him _with_? And yet.

"Maybe," Andrew said carefully, and then in a tone that would be curt in anyone else but was practically _comforting_ coming from Andrew, "Thinking about it is an exercise in futility. We _are_ Jumpers. Wishing won't change anything."

"I'm not wishing," Neil said, not quite defensive. He wasn't, not about this. "I just wondered, for a second. Why do they meet, every time? Would it have happened to us, too?"

Now, Andrew snorted. "Are you getting at some concept of _destiny_?" Neil gave him a _look_ , but Andrew shook his head. "Neil. We're Jumpers. We play with time. If there is anything like destiny, then it doesn't apply to us."

Neil thought of California and gunshots and smoke, and a thousand attempts at fixing it, so many Jumps that the timeline of those few hours—days— _weeks_ , was blurred and fixed into his mind, a chaos of events that always led to death. There had been nothing he, the Jumper, could do to save his mother. "I think you are only half-right."

Andrew almost looked surprised for a moment before he smoothed his face into his normal expression, which was no expression at all.

Neil leaned forward again, stretching his arms out and wiping the last crumbs onto his pant leg. "The thing is, I can't see it. I know what we wouldn't have, but I can't see myself as not being a Jumper. Or you. I can't see myself with a house or a job or—a _life_ , I guess. Or you, even if—" Andrew raised his eyebrows at him, and Neil frowned. "What?"

"How presumptuous."

Neil frowned deeper. "Which part?"

"I realize you have nothing better to do than come here day after day, but don't project your lack of _a life_ onto me."

Neil blinked, surprised. He supposed it _was_ a little presumptuous, but he had never considered that this Andrew, an Andrew who Jumped, an Andrew who had met half a dozen different Neils, with an ordinary life—a job, friends, a _present_ to go back to that was more than an empty house and a stock of food and money and clothes. "I didn't think," he broke off, shaking his head. Why would an Andrew with a life choose to come here every night? Why would he find other Neils?

"No, you don't much."

"A life," Neil said. "What's that like? Do people know you? Andrew Minyard, Jumper? Do you have a _job_?" It was, somehow, difficult to imagine Andrew leaving Dubai to go home to other people, to sleep in his bed, to wake up in the morning and go to work, and—other _normal people_ things. Neil had lost a true understanding of what those were a long time ago.

Andrew hummed noncommittally, saying nothing. Neil waited for a minute, then two, then another, and was about to change the topic ( _too personal, why would Andrew want to tell him anything about his life anyway_ —) when he spoke. "Not many people. And no. Not anymore."

Neil raised an eyebrow. Andrew seemed to consider whether or not he should tell him, and evidently decided to indulge him. "I have a brother. A twin, Aaron. He's not a Jumper."

The name was enough; Neil's other eyebrow rose, and he had to struggle not to let a smile break out, an echo of last week's hysteria. _Aaron_. Neil hadn't heard of him since Berlin, hadn't thought of him much either, and here he was. It seemed odd that those few people he had known as _associated_ with Andrew those few times be here too, in his present, even though he had seen some of them more than once in the past. Would he find a Kevin here, ready to look at him without judgment? An Allison, who he wouldn't write his condolences to? A Renee who he might befriend, guilty and not at the same time?

"That's it?" Neil asked, feeling brave, and Andrew gave him a look of unveiled irritation, but kept going.

"My cousin Nicky. He lives in Germany." This was almost funny, now: Nicky, and his German boyfriend. He wondered if Erik existed in this time, if he had died when those shooters emerged in New York. Neil had been too torn to pay attention to him, not when he had just watched himself— _Neil—_ die. "An old therapist. Some people who knew when I was younger. Foster families." Andrew looked him straight in the eye, as though expecting some sort of remark about this. Neil willed himself not to react to the information. He felt like he was being tested, and he didn't know what was the right answer—but then, it always felt like that with Andrew.

"When you Jump back," Neil said after a few seconds of carefully not moving, "will you be erasing other things?" There was no way to simply undo certain parts of the past; Andrew would have to Jump back to before the first time he had met Neil, to before Johannesburg. Anything that happened between Johannesburg and now would be gone, and that included anything else in this life of his. It would never have happened, and that maybe meant it could happen again, but most people didn't like to take those chances. Jumping back _long distance_ , as it were, was rare for a reason.

Andrew gave Neil a cool look in response. "You say _when_ , though you know perfectly well I'm not Jumping back without you. Have you made up your mind?"

He felt like he had. He had a lot to lose—but Andrew's trick had worked. Showing him the men in the garden, the ones who wouldn't _die_ , had worked. All he lost in this was his memories—the other Andrews, the other Neils, they lost their chances at something like that. _But_.

 _But_ it felt too easy to give in. _But_ the idea of Jumping back to the time after his mother still made his breath catch in his chest, terrifying. _But_ he still felt like he could find another way, a magic solution that might let him keep this and let Andrew live, too.

He needed time. All he had was time.

"First, I want to show you something," he said.

 

—

 

Neil was the one who Jumped this time, bringing the two of them just outside the city of Sankt Goar, from the spot that offered the best view of the Lorelei across the Rhine. It was 1703, the year that Neil had brought another Andrew to this same place. They were a few minutes early, but Neil knew they would be appearing in no time, too far away to do anything but watch from a distance.

"Where are we?"

 _A rock in the German Confederation_ , he didn't say, and felt sick with the words. "The Lorelei. It's just a rock, but it's a well known one. There's a poem about it, and an old folktale. A siren, Lorelei, sits atop the rock and sings a song while combing her blonde hair, and pulls hundreds of sailors to their doom. Distraction. The murmuring of the waterfall or the river is supposed to be her song. It's beautiful, if you can hear it."

Andrew looked at him, a question in the set of his mouth, the pinching of his brows. "And why are _we_ here?"

Neil inclined his chin to point at where any second now, a different Neil and a different Andrew would appear. "For them."

And they did, of course they did. One second they weren't there, and the next they were. Across the river, they were too far away to see much more than two men, one dark-haired and one blond, holding hands.

"That's you with another Andrew?" Andrew asked. Neil nodded, _yes_ , but kept his eyes across at the Lorelei itself. He didn't want to see Andrew's face, didn't want to see his reaction, or maybe he didn't want him to know Neil's. This was the version of Andrew that had been both the youngest (only eighteen) and the happiest. _Untainted—_ until he died. He was, of course, still Andrew at heart, that never changed, but he had been faster to trust, less harsh in his words, easier to startle into a laugh. Neil rarely compared the Andrews to each other, but this was one he could never not think of. He was the first one Neil had told being a Jumper. He was the only Andrew who had needed something from Neil; he was the one Neil had failed the most.

 _Just by meeting him_.

He had been responsible for Andrew's death, every time. It felt impossible to accept, even if it made sense, even if it was the _only_ thing that made sense. He hated that Andrew was right, that everything he had been asking him to do was _right_ , was logical. They could have been alive, they could have been something like _happy_ , but Neil. But _Neil_.

"This place," Andrew started, and Neil looked up at him. "It's just a _rock_ , Neil."

He shook his head. Maybe, maybe if he could be more objective, if he could be more distant, _maybe_. But he couldn't. "It isn't. Not to me." And then, because he needed to show him, needed to _explain_ , he said: "Do you want to see it?"

Andrew looked as though he was going to refuse, and Neil refused to be upset by this. He was not _Neil's_ Andrew. He did not owe Neil anything. He did not care that Neil had once met other Andrew's, or that he had once fallen in—that he had had _something_ with them. This rock meant nothing to him. _Neil_ meant nothing to him—and that shouldn’t hurt him, either. It had to be okay, because Neil could not expect anything from him. That he had agreed to come here in the first place was plenty, was enough.

Andrew nodded, and raised their still-joined hands. With his wrist clasped loosely between his fingers, Neil snapped his fingers, and they landed on the lowest part of the Lorelei, just high enough that he saw Andrew's breath catch for a fraction of a second.

Neil exhaled, long and low. "You don't like heights."

He got a glare in return. "And _you_ don't like fire."

Neil winced, but Andrew was right. While he knew that he wasn't the only one who had met the _reincarnations_ before, it was easy to not realize what exactly that meant. Andrew knew Neil, or those versions of Neil, as well as he knew Andrew.

"Which Andrew was that?"

"1709, Dundee. He was a sailor. Or wanted to be." He had been a deckhand, really, but he had said once that he wanted to make helmsman. He hadn't exactly been popular with the crew, but Andrew was capable. He would have made it, Neil was sure, if he had lived to do it.

"I knew a Neil in 1710. Belfast." For a few seconds, Andrew was silent, before he spoke again, "Is he the reason this place is so important to you?"

Neil shook his head. "It's not just him. Have you ever felt like you're drowning? I did. Here. And not just him—and not just this time. We came here more than once. When he found out I was a Jumper, he just said _anywhere_ , and I landed here. I'd only been here once before, and that was. Different. But he loved it here, and it didn't even mean anything to him. We borrowed a boat and he rowed and _sang_. And smiled."

He had been delighted, his smile ready to pierce Neil’s lungs. Neil couldn't give this up—they had been as happy as the men in the garden—he had to give this up.

"Doesn't sound like me."

Neil's eyes flew to Andrew. That was the boy he fell in love with; this was the one man he couldn't. "It wasn't you, was it?"

"No. What did he sing?"

Neil ducked his head, letting out a low whisper. He could hear the words in his mind. It felt like every question added pressure to the weight on his chest, sending him down and down and down. He was alight, Andrew was fanning the flames. But it was nothing Neil hadn't done to himself before, and he deserved his answers just as much as Neil had deserved _his_. Somehow, it felt important for Andrew to understand. "I said there was a poem, right? _Die Lorelei_."

"I've heard of it."

Andrew worried at his lip with his thumb, picking at nothing. Neil averted his eyes, keeping them on the rushing water below them. They had landed far enough that you couldn't see the waterfall, but the murmuring was as loud as ever. He realized that he was still holding Andrew's wrist, and for a second he saw them like he was on the opposite cliff, two figures holding hands, one dark-haired and one blond.

"You've seen this place. You've seen him. I don't know if I can give it up."

Andrew turned to look at Neil, and said, voice steady like he knew, when even Neil didn't, "You already have."

 

—

 

When Neil arrived carrying sandwiches and in a pleasant mood, Andrew raised his eyebrows. Neil said nothing, waiting; if questions came, he was ready to answer, but he was not about to bury himself in explanations. He took a seat next to Andrew and opened the box, saying nothing about the larger-than-usual quantity of food. _If_ in theory there was too much for Neil alone to eat—well, Andrew didn't need to know that. If Andrew wanted to share, though, Neil would be happy to.

"You're in a good mood," Andrew said after a few minutes. He didn't say _again_ , but Neil heard it all the same. So they were both thinking about it; the last time Neil had been in a _good mood_ —though now it felt false, checkered by how it had ended.

"Maybe it's the food," Neil shrugged. "You can have some if you want, by the way," he added, signaling to one of the many sandwiches in the box. They were somewhat hot, but good. He had bought them from Dubai itself, certain that here at least there would be no other Andrews—it had been nice, taking a few hours away to find a joint in the noisy bright streets. He was eating something called a _Bombay Sandwich_ currently, which, having actually eaten a sandwich in Mumbai, he could definitely say was nothing like the real thing.

Andrew was silent next to him, but he had put out his smoke, and it was sitting next to him, glowing lightly. Neil's eyes kept wandering to him, the only source of light in the otherwise dark room, eyes almost silver in this light.

After a few minutes, Andrew turned to him with half a frown on his face. "I have a question for you," he said, sounding as though this were a problem. For Andrew, it might be. Neil nodded, turning to face him. "You're being a lot less difficult than usual. Why?"

Neil had not realized he was being less difficult, but maybe it wasn't so surprising. When Andrew had first called him here, he had been... taken aback. More than that; he had been furious, and grieving, and resistant. Andrew's efforts to show him what he had done had had the opposite effect; seeing Neil and Andrew die had just made him cling further to Andrew—he had seen too much death for it to really sway him, both before Berlin and after.

But he had, despite everything, grown almost _accustomed_ to the idea that he was responsible for Andrew's death. He would never be okay with this, but he had, at least, accepted it.

Neil took his time in chewing, giving himself time to think, then took the leap, and said, "You said it yourself, remember? I've made my choice." _Given it up_.

Andrew was frozen next to him, still as a statue. When Neil didn't continue, he said, "What is this, then? A last meal?"

Neil considered it, then decided honesty was the best route; he wasn't ready, and he wasn't going to pretend he was. Lying would achieve him nothing now, and he had nothing to hide from Andrew—nothing that would matter soon, anyway. Andrew was the only person who knew he existed; anything he said now affected no one except him. He was finally a real ghost, existing only in the middle of the night on an empty floor in a dark building in Dubai, and Andrew had made him this.

"No," he said. "I'm not ready yet. I need to—prepare myself." Andrew gave him an irritable sort of look, so he clarified, "This isn't a ploy, Andrew. I'm going back to something that—" he broke off, not sure how to talk about the time before Berlin, not sure if he could. "I know it won't make a difference, but I need it. And then I'll do it. Jump."

Andrew watched him for a second, as though trying to read the truth on his face. Maybe he could. "Alright," he said eventually, and turned away, eyes lingering for a second even as he did.

Neil raised an eyebrow, doing his best to say relaxed. "You have a lot more patience than I would."

Andrew leaned back slightly on one palm, made a contemplative noise. "You've made me wait this long; a few more days won't make a difference."

Neil shrugged, said, "Anyone else would be impatient _because_ I've made them wait this long." It was barely a nudge, really, but he wished he could take it back immediately. Neil felt like he was approaching an easily-spooked cat, taking silent tiny steps so he didn't scare it away. Andrew wasn't a cat, and he definitely wasn't easily spooked, but—Neil wanted to be careful all the same. This could be a ceasefire of sorts. As much as he didn't like it, he needed Andrew to be here if he was going to Jump; on his own, he would never be motivated to do it.

It was almost funny, the inversion. Ordinarily, Andrew would be telling him to stay.

"We are Jumpers. All we have is time. You could take six years and it wouldn't matter as long as you Jumped back at the end."

A smile pulled at Neil's face unbidden, but it wasn't harsh like the one from the other night. "Do you want me to take six years?" he asked. Andrew's face told him exactly what he thought of that, so Neil dropped the topic, and pushed the box toward him with one knee, a peace offering. "It won't kill you to eat, you know."

Andrew gestured to the stub of the cigarette on the floor. "Just smoked."

Neil shrugged. "So go brush your teeth. This will still be here when you return."

Andrew tensed at this, his whole body somehow stiffer than it had been a second ago, though you wouldn't know it from his face. Anyone else wouldn't have noticed; Neil was too well-versed in Andrew's body language to not. Neil frowned, sitting upright and ready to say something, when Andrew said calmly, "I will not come back here."

Neil frowned, not sure why. Andrew's aim was excellent, even better than Neil's, as their trips to France and the balcony in New York had both demonstrated excellently—he couldn't be worried about missing. And there was no other reason for him not to return here, except for—Neil?

Neil thought back to every time they had met; he had seen Andrew leave, but never arrive. Andrew was always on the floor and in position seated or standing when Neil got here, even if he arrived at midnight precisely. They had Jumped together, but Andrew had never come to him alone, and no one at their destination had been waiting for them, or even taken any notice of them. Did Andrew have something against being seen landing?

If he asked, he would get no response, and more likely than not Andrew would shut down entirely. He could maybe make it a question he wanted answered, part of their game. Andrew had said he would answer depending on the question, but he hadn't kept anything from him so far. But this was different, entirely unrelated to anything about the other Andrews or the other Neils—he couldn't justify asking him like that. Besides, he didn't want to pull teeth from him.

Some part of Neil told him that he shouldn't want _anything_ from Andrew, but that felt impossible. He had always wanted something from Andrew, whether it was to be left alone or to save him or answers.

Neil stood up, taking the box with him, and moved his free hand to snapping position. With an ease he didn't feel, he said, "Tomorrow night, then."

Andrew stared at him like he was weighing his options, like he expected something more. There was an intent in his eyes that belied his calm expression, and Neil couldn't quite look away. When he nodded, Neil felt something in his chest that he couldn't name—when he Jumped away, that something intensified.

Neil rubbed at his chest for a second, then shook his head and Jumped, landing a few minutes after midnight, and found Andrew leaning against a window, just so.

There was glass there, he knew—but it was clean, and transparent enough now for Andrew to be leaning against nothing at all. He looked relaxed, but Andrew wouldn't lean against the glass for no reason. Neil's heart felt in his throat, beating out a furious hummingbird beat, and he swallowed it down with some difficulty, not sure if it was because of the nature of Andrew's fear (his breath had caught when they landed on the Lorelei, and Neil could hear it now, that sharp catch, like stopping yourself from falling, _was this how someone afraid of heights felt_ —) or because of how deceptively weak the glass looked.

Any second now, it would break and send Andrew plummeting a hundred floors to the ground.

"Hungry?" he asked, taking a seat well away from the window, trying to pretend he wasn't struggling to breathe.

Andrew moved away from the window—Neil's heartbeat slowed, slowed, not quite at normal yet—and Neil couldn't help but trace his walk to where Neil himself was seated, until he was next to him.

Andrew said, "As if I'd eat anything you gave me," and picked out a sandwich from the open box. Peace offering—accepted. Neil felt frozen still, not quite able to move. He kept seeing Andrew falling. Next to him, Andrew had torn a quarter of a sandwich into an eighth, and was now eating it. When he turned to look at Neil, Neil found he couldn't maintain eye contact, and looked away.

 

—

 

"I miss him," Neil said, leaning back onto his arms so he didn't have to look at Andrew as he said it. He could feel Andrew's gaze on him, the silent question, though they both knew whom he meant.

Instead of saying nothing, as Neil had believed he would, Andrew asked, "Which one?"

Neil looked at Andrew for a second, impassive and still and waiting, waiting and waiting for him to make up his mind. Did he miss Neil, too? If the answer was _yes_ , he wanted to sit back up, wanted to look at him and say— _I'm right here_. But of course, that was wishful thinking. "All of them. Just him. I don't know. I know Andrew was Andrew was Andrew, but they felt like different people, too, in a way. Just a little unique."

"Why now?"

Neil laughed, closing his eyes. "It's not _just_ now. I've always missed him, since Berlin, since he—since I left. I don't think I ever stopped."

"You're about to," Andrew said, and Neil laughed dully, because that was true.

"Did you know, in Berlin, he asked me where I was from. Just once. I couldn't really tell him, but I know he thought I was planning to run away again. Maybe he thought I'd go back there. Once, he was in a terrible mood, and he told me I could just leave. I said I'd miss arguing with him too much." Neil looked back at Andrew, tilting his head just a little so he caught him at an angle. The moon was harsh and bright on the lines of his face tonight, making them sharper, angrier. Neil resisted the urge to look away. "I didn't think I'd actually have to miss him. Even if I left, I could just go back." He hadn't thought he would ever run away or go back to where he had been before Berlin, either, but here he was.

Andrew was silent for minutes. Then he said, "And you missed him even in Rijeka?"

Neil thought about it, then nodded. "Not at first. I couldn't really see the differences then, and it all felt like some sort of... _miracle_ , finding him again. But later, I could see bits and pieces. He was angrier, he was more outspoken, and—I wasn't comparing them, but sometimes it would just hit me, like this wasn't something Berlin-Andrew would have done, or said. And I'd expect him to know things, because I'd told him, but it wasn't _him_." Neil shook his head, sighing. "I was an idiot. He probably thought so too," Neil paused, wrinkled his nose, and said, "No, he _definitely_ thought so. He told me."

Andrew said nothing, just watching him with something unidentifiable on his face. Neil said, finally, "And you? After Johannesburg, did you miss Neil?"

Andrew shook his head. Slowly, deliberately, he said, "No. I was too angry to miss him." Neil waited, but Andrew seemed to be finished with volunteering information. He would take it; it was a surprisingly honest statement, and while nothing of Andrew betrayed any kind of vulnerability, it seemed personal—more personal than most things they had talked about so far.

"Did you regret it?" he asked, instead. "Going to Johannesburg. Finding him."

Andrew gave him a look. "If I regretted it, I would have Jumped back and made it never happen."

Neil raised an eyebrow, and tried to sound unconcerned as he said, "You're about to."

"You are perfectly aware of my reasons for Jumping back. You're going to do it yourself—do you regret going to Berlin?"

There was no way to answer that, because Neil had no answer for it himself; he did, and he didn't. He couldn't give up meeting Andrew, having stayed in that tiny house and meeting his twin and Abigail and Betsy, but he was going to do just that. He didn't regret being whatever they'd been, and being convinced to stay—but he regretted that he had killed Andrew. If he had not gone there, Andrew would not have died.

Andrew raised his voice to a mocking tone, said, "No?"

Neil recognized this as Andrew pushing, and for maybe the first time since he had first come to Dubai, didn't want to push back. "I can't," he said. "Even after all this, I don't know if I can regret finding him."

"I thought you believed that finding him was inevitable? Andrew and Neil, fated to _run into each other_."

Neil hadn't thought Andrew had paid attention to that, but that was wishful thinking. Andrew paid attention to everything and remembered everything, which was likely why he had figured out what was happening well before Neil got close. He shrugged. "I didn't think you believed that."

Andrew made a noise of contempt. "I don't. Besides, whatever you had with them was far from good, even if you weren't killing them just by being there. You say you weren't comparing them, but you clearly did. You knew all about Andrew, and Andrew had just met you." Neil looked away, and Andrew clearly took this as fuel, because he continued, "And the lying. Could you ever tell him that you're a Jumper?"

Neil dug his nails into his palm, hard. He looked up at Andrew, then said, "I did, once. He died. Could you do it, Andrew?"

Andrew snorted, which was remarkably expressive for him. He said, "No. Which is the point. Whatever your _relationship_ with Andrew or mine with Neil was, it was not healthy or honest. Neil didn't trust anyone. Did you think Andrew trusted you?"

Neil clenched his nails harder into the skin, tried to keep from pushing back, and said instead, "Neil trusted you." As Andrew looked ready to protest this, he continued, "If he was anything like me, he trusted you."

Andrew said nothing. Neil, feeling slightly bolstered at having surprised him, continued, "But you're right. It wasn't honest or healthy. I couldn't tell Andrew that I'm a Jumper—but you already know." Any trace of expression on Andrew's features vanished entirely as he registered Neil's meaning. Neil could almost feel his heart stop, but before he could change his mind, before Andrew had time to stand up and leave, he kept going. "You know as much about Neil as I know about Andrew, but we're not them. And you know I'm a Jumper. And neither of us are going to die."

Andrew said, very slowly, "Neil." He did not sound like he was angry, but he didn't sound like he was feeling anything at all—but his eyes had dropped, to Neil's lips, to his neck. Suddenly, Neil was in a stairway in Berlin, afraid to move in case he broke the moment.

When Neil first met Andrew in Dundee, he had wanted nothing more than to save his life. He had seen two of them die, and had fallen for them both without exactly realizing what it was—but when Andrew had kissed him, he had been incapable of any resistance, because he had _needed_ some part of him, something. By Madras, he had realized that pretending that his only goal was to _save_ him was useless; he could pretend all he liked, but he would always want Andrew, anything he was willing to give. It had made him take his hand in New York, made him follow him to his house in Winsford, made him keep going back when he had no choice. He could not say no to Andrew, even when he thought he could.

He had never _asked_ , but he had never not wanted to.

They were sitting closer than he had thought. Seconds were ticking by in his head, _thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two_. Andrew was very quiet; he wondered if he could hear them too, like a whisper in his ear. Neil thought of Andrew’s mouth at his ear back in the garden, telling him to look—his expression as he had stared at Neil, back to hedge. _Forty, forty-one, forty-two._ In Berlin they had sat together and Neil had done nothing, and Andrew had pulled away, and then—

And then nothing.

Neil said, "Andrew." And then, "Can I kiss you?"

Andrew clenched his jaw. "I thought you had decided."

Neil pursed his lips together, then nodded. "I have. This won't change my mind. This isn't, this isn't about Andrew. It's not connected to him, or to Jumping back, or Neil. I just want to—you can say no." He felt breathless; he felt certain he was about to be rejected. When had this started? He knew he was lost when it came to this, that he would always crave what he couldn't have when it came to Andrew, but he hadn't expected this to happen when he first came to Dubai. Not after what Andrew wanted from him.

But then— _but then what_?

"We will both forget it ever happened."

"I know," he said, and that felt like the only thing he ever told Andrew, when he barely knew anything at all. What would hurt more: kissing Andrew and forgetting him, or not kissing him and forgetting him? The last was inevitable. For so long, he had focused on the in-betweens, the something good between meeting him, and death. There would be no dying this time, but that didn't make it any better.

Andrew looked away, then slowly got to his feet. Neil tried to push away any feelings of disappointment; Andrew owed him nothing, and had made it very clear what his coming here was about. _Convincing you_. But Neil was convinced.

"Not today," Andrew said, and Jumped.

 

—

 

"I almost killed Dan," he finished, leaning into the wall. Neil raised an eyebrow at the not-quite-unfamiliar name.

"Who's Dan?"

Andrew frowned. "He said she was his cousin. She was the one who let him go to the club that night."

"I knew a Dan in Madras, but not very well." He had only met her once, when he had convinced Andrew to attempt to befriend one of the other men in his regiment, and Andrew had convinced him to tag along. He had met her husband, Matthew, more than once, but he remembered him best as the man who had taken him to Andrew's body. It was not a happy memory.

"That's five now."

Neil thought about it, then said, "Six. I don't think you know Kevin, but I've met him twice."

Andrew looked irritated at the very name. "Kevin Day?"

Neil nodded. "I didn't know you knew him. Where did you meet?" Andrew hadn't told him about every time he met Neil, and what little he knew was condensed, but he was curious to know where Kevin might have shown up. Winsford and Johannesburg were the shortest _trips_ he had taken, so to speak, and Neil didn't know much about who Kevin had been in either place.

"Last year." Neil raised his eyebrow, but let it be, as it clearly wasn't something Andrew was interested in talking about.

"That makes three people you know in the present." Neil said after a few seconds. Neil himself had met none, though that could easily be attributed to his not having spent much time in his present. If he _had_ met them, it was before he and his mother ran away; too long ago for him to remember. "Why do you think that happens?"

Andrew made a face and said, "This is the same argument as the one about Neil and Andrew meeting."

"Fated to meet, right?" he said, leaning back. "I know you don't believe it, but what if I'm right about it? And what if that means that all this is pointless?" At Andrew's silence, he leaned forward a little, continued, "This. I'm not changing my mind, but I need to know. What if it doesn't work? We Jump back, but we fall into the same cycle? I go to Berlin, you go to Johannesburg—or Madras, or New York, or San Antonio. And they still die. All of this would have been for nothing. What then?"

Andrew raised his chin, just a little, and Neil blinked when he realized just how close he was. There was little intensity behind his stare, but when he spoke, it was as though he was setting words in stone. "Then I will figure it out, and find you, and we will do all this again."

He couldn't help but imagine it—him and Andrew, ten timelines or a hundred, still here, still playing this game. Andrew would try to convince him—in no world would Neil agree to Jump back easily—and they would do all this again. He might watch Andrew die a hundred times caught in a loop, and every time he would not regret meeting him. He might Jump back tens of times and achieve nothing. "How many times?" he asked, his voice coming out sticky.

"As many as it takes."

Neil let out a low breath and nodded, looking down. He should have expected that—he knew what this was about, for Andrew. It was about _Neil_. As many times as it takes, if he could save Neil. How many times had _he_ Jumped in Los Angeles? How many times had he tried to save her?

But—that hurt. He had been completely unable to do anything about it; she had been impossible to save. The idea that Andrew might fail as many times, that _they_ might fail as many times—it hurt. He looked back up and frowned at Andrew, shook his head. "It was a stupid question," he said, banishing the image of him and Andrew in the garden, over and over and over. How long would it take for him to be convinced a second time? A third, a fourth, a tenth? Would they even realize they had done this before? "It's going to work."

Andrew said, "I know." It was so sure that Neil couldn't doubt it. Andrew set facts in stone just by stating them, and Neil was immeasurably grateful, because he could never be sure of anything else.

"So we're not meeting them. What about each other?" he asked, trying to change the topic to something lighter. Andrew would mock him, and Neil wouldn't even mind.

"You keep asking the same questions," Andrew said, looking irritable, but the tension seemed to have visibly melted off him.

Neil shrugged. "I'm not getting any answers."

"I am not the person who can give them to you."

Neil said, "Fair enough." He did not say that the only answers he really wanted were the ones Andrew had. He pushed the thought away, let the subject drop. Andrew had told him once that he wouldn't be his answer; it didn’t seem fair to make him just that.

 

—

 

The first of the fireworks began minutes after Neil landed, and his breath caught in his throat abruptly. Beside him, Andrew seemed to notice that something was wrong, because he turned a half-questioning gaze on him. Neil shook his head and turned his eyes away from the sky, though it was impossible to avoid them, really. They were bright—bright enough to hurt his eyes, and felt close enough to touch as high up as they were. If it weren't for the glass, he would worry about getting burnt.

As it was, the only thing worrying him was the sound of the fireworks, muffled and distant, but no less like a gunshot. And they lit up the sky, and when they dissolved they left a sky discolored with smoke.

"Fireworks," he choked out, finally. "I don't— _like_ —fireworks."

Andrew's hand landed unexpectedly on the back of his neck. The gesture was painful, an unasked for reminder of every other time Andrew had done this, of Berlin, when Andrew had rescued him from a burning building and asked him a question and told him to stay. This was not the same, but it was _something_. Andrew didn't have to do it, but he did. It wasn't meant as comfort, perhaps, but it was.

Andrew said, "We don't have to stay here."

It was a way out; it was a kindness. Neil swallowed, turning it over in his mind, but forced his eyes open (when had he closed them?) and shook his head.

"No," he said, though he could smell smoke as another one lit up the sky, golden sparks shimmering to nothing before them. "No, I should," he paused, and took a deep breath, and took comfort from the hand placed at the back of his neck.

"Neil," Andrew said, "don't be an idiot."

The exasperation that tinged his voice was enough to make Neil want to argue back. "I'm serious," he said, caught somewhere between California and Dubai, 1942 and 2012. It sounded weak to his own ears, but something about right now felt important, like running away from this would only make him that much more afraid to Jump later. He couldn't be afraid of fireworks and gunshots if he had to go back to before-Andrew; more importantly, to after his mother.

Berlin had been a luxury. Between Abigail and Betsy, between sitting on the narrow stairwell next to Andrew and talking about everything, between exploring a bright white city, he had come to terms with the fact that his mother was dead and that he was alone. And then he had— _maybe—_ stopped feeling like he had to be alone, like he had to run.

He would be going back to before Berlin, to a period of time that even he remembered only in the barest of ways; hotel rooms and spent money and panic, looking over his shoulder like he never had before and Jumping away at the barest of frights. Nowhere was safe when it was your own sense-memory that was haunting you. If he thought about it too much, he would never be able to go back, as much as he knew he had to.

But—he _did_ know he had to, and he would, and the better prepared he was for the onslaught that faced him on return the better. It didn't make any real difference, of course, as he would not remember any of this on landing, but it felt like an attempt, which was better than nothing.

Andrew said nothing, but he didn't take away his hand, and Neil took it as whatever it was meant to be, comfort or recognition or an anchor. It worked, in any case, keeping him firmly in Dubai, on a building halfway to the sky. The night lit up in pinks and greens and silvers and golds, reflecting off the glass, and when he thought he could breath, he breathed in, long and deep, and thought of the man sitting next to him—no smoke.

"Why?" Andrew asked, and Neil looked at him. "Why _should you_?" He cut off as abruptly as Neil had, maybe mocking, maybe just unsure how to finish.

Neil let him wait while he collected his thoughts, then said, looking down at his hands, "You don't know what I'm going back to, Andrew. Before Berlin, before I met him, I was," he broke off, feeling a little choked. No one had known him in this time, just the Andrew from Berlin, and he hadn't really known anything either. This was not something he had ever talked about, not someone he remembered being entirely, like a person who wasn't quite Neil.

Well. He _hadn't_ been Neil, he had been a jumble of names and cities and times, the afterimage of a memory. An optical illusion; there, and then gone.

"It was not a good time to be me," he summarized, and then looked up. "If I'm going back there—I need to know I can get past it on my own."

Andrew said, "You can."

Neil said, "You sound surer of that than I am."

"I know you, Neil Josten. You have gotten past worse, and you can do this." There was a surety there that was impossible to dispute, and Neil didn't want to, wanted to believe that Andrew knew him like he said he did. This was not the first time Andrew had implied that he knew Neil, but it felt like the first time he had made a statement about him like this, and it was—it _meant_ a lot.

He was Neil, and Andrew knew him.

"Andrew," he said, before he could stop himself. "Can I kiss you?"

"You were all but having a panic attack ten minutes ago," Andrew said with thinly veiled contempt.

"I'm fine. You know I want to _—_ we've talked about this." Of course, he had known what Andrew meant when he said _not yet_ , too, because it had sounded a lot like _never_. Because there was no way this ended well, when they were both going to Jump away and forget that the other existed. Suddenly, he didn't want to forget this Andrew either, sitting in an empty building in the dark, talking and smoking and the feeling of falling, but not in a good way. He was as much Andrew as any other.

Neil had asked weeks ago, half-joking, if they would have met in a world where they weren't Jumpers. He still couldn't answer that, but he knew that it would have ended just like every other time, and that _right now_ he was making the same mistake he had made in Berlin.

"That doesn't mean you know what you want," Andrew said. Neil nodded, well aware that Andrew was right—of course he was.

"I know," he said, possibly surprising him. He hoped so, anyway. "I just," he broke off, then shook his head, not sure how to say what he wanted to. He felt like a stumbling idiot. "It was stupid to ask, I know. But... Andrew, what you said. You're not a _replacement_ , you wouldn't be. You'd just be Andrew." He looked up, feeling oddly out of breath. There was nothing to expect here, he knew that. _Had_ always known that.

Andrew was looking at him with an inscrutable expression, and even knowing a hundred of him couldn't have told Neil what was going on in his mind. Neil wanted to speak, wanted to explain himself, wanted to take back what he had just said, but didn't have any words left. He knew where they were going, and he knew that what he wanted—what he _always_ wanted—had no place in this.

Everything about each passing second was a contradiction, a study in no hopes and dashed ones. Speaking was defeat, and even that was ridiculous, because there was no victory here. He was hyper-aware of everything; the way they sat, not quite side-by-side, not quite facing each other. They had been silent for over a minute. The ashes of Andrew's smoke, put out at some point Neil hadn't noticed, rustled dimly in the corner of his eye. Andrew was looking at him intently, or with intent, but what it meant he had no idea.

In the end, it was Andrew who spoke first. He said, "You are hopeless."

Neil felt the smile grow before he could stop it. "I know," he said, and looked back out at the sky, still pale with old smoke. It was impossible to know whether he was imagining the fond note in Andrew's voice, his words, or if it was real.

"I don't know what you hope to achieve," Andrew continued.

Neil shrugged. "By kissing you? I don't hope to _achieve_ anything. I just want to do it." Andrew's silence was suddenly very loud. Neil looked at him, said, "It doesn't matter, you know. I want to, but I know what that would mean. I'm not going to change my mind about Jumping now, and if we're going to forget each other," he let another sad half-smile grow before it fell again, and sighed. "It won't change anything. We'll never have met."

Andrew said, nonsensically, "We will."

"What?"

"We will have met."

Neil frowned, trying to think back to any Andrew that could be this one, the Jumper, and came up black. Each Andrew had been too real for his time, and in any case, they had all died. The man sitting next to him was extremely alive. There were other ways it may happen still, but that was a line of thought Neil wasn't willing to pursue.

"How?" he asked.

"Once—no, maybe twice, but that one was erased. I don't remember it, but I know it happened." Neil frowned. Andrew had a perfect memory, or at least some of them had; possibly this Andrew did too. He didn't know how that might affect the forgetting of erased timelines, but it seemed extremely unfair that Andrew might retain _something—_ before he could say that, though, Andrew said, "Once. In California. I was seven or eight. You appeared in front of my foster home." When Neil frowned, Andrew continued, "You were probably no older."

Neil stared. "You were the kid who accused me of being a Jumper."

Andrew looked like he might be gritting his teeth. "Yes."

Neil forcibly shut his mouth, which felt like it would hang open forever if left to its own volition. He barely remembered it himself—it was over ten years ago, and in any case he had only a vague memory of his life before he and his mother had run away. He had (foolishly) Jumped across the country to see an earthquake, and instead landed in the wrong year and been called out for being a Jumper.

He had no idea what to say about that, so instead he said, "So we _would_ have met."

This time, Andrew was the confused one. "What?"

"Believe it or not—my Jump took me to you when we were both kids. I can't prove that we would have met if we weren't Jumpers, but I'd bet on it."

Andrew gave him a look of the utmost irritation. "Why you continue to put thought into something that will never happen is beyond me. We _are_ Jumpers, Neil. That isn't something that changes, no matter what we do."

Neil shrugged. "I have a bad habit of hoping for things that will never happen. At least I know exactly what it is."

"A delusion?"

"Call it a mirage," he said. "It hurts no one."

Andrew shook his head, slow and deliberate, and said, "It hurts you."

 

—

 

"I keep waiting for you to get tired of waiting for me and just stop coming here," he offered as he pulled at the pith of an orange. For some reason that made Neil smile, Andrew had been holding oranges when he appeared instead of his customary cigarette, and had offered him one. They were surprisingly sweet.

"I'm patient."

"Six years, right?" Neil asked him, smiling, and Andrew looked pointedly away; the Andrew equivalent of rolling his eyes, maybe. It was not a friendly gesture, but it warmed Neil with something that felt a lot like fondness, anyway. He popped a piece of orange into his mouth and looked up as he chewed. "I don't know. It's been months—maybe I should take that time."

Andrew said, "As long as you don't change your mind."

Neil shrugged, still looking at the ceiling. "How long _would_ you wait, though? We could have a lifetime of this, just meeting in Dubai. You smoke, I bring food. We talk. You can get all my secrets from me, and hold me to Jumping back. Twenty years later, when you're sick of me, you stop coming here, and I'll take it as a hint and make the Jump." He was only joking, but even that felt like foolishness, and it didn't come out sounding particularly funny. Andrew did not look pitying, though. "I know," he said, before Andrew could attempt to be nice, and looked back up.

Andrew took a long time, but said, "Sometimes I want to kiss you, too."

Swallowing when he was looking up hurt just a little, Neil discovered, right at the center of his throat. It felt as though he was being held captive, gun to his neck, waiting. He couldn't look at Andrew. "Why don't you?"

Andrew said, "You can't touch a pipe dream."

"Andrew," he said softly, as he felt something like a weight, impossibly heavy, settle onto him. Andrew looked at him, and when he said nothing, waiting, Neil closed his eyes. He was tired of stretching and waiting and anticipating; there was nothing he could do here that would matter. He wasn't _ready_ , but he would never be ready. He stood up.

It was time.

Outside, the sun was not yet visible, but the sky was lightening, and the city was getting ready to rise. In maybe an hour or so, people would begin opening up this building, and find orange peels and seeds on the ground, with no one there to account for it. He wondered what explanation they were giving for it all, the ash, the burnt-out cigarettes. He turned around and looked at Dubai, which was beautiful and just waking up, tiny pinpricks from the streetlights making the city look like a little map of itself.

This was not the last place he wanted to see.

"I wish," Neil began, and then changed his mind. "I probably won't see you on the other side," he said to Andrew, and didn't wait to hear his answer.

 

The Lorelei was beautiful no matter where you stood, across it or in the river or on it. Everything about this day was exactly as he remembered it, from the blazing sun to the song of the waterfall to the color of Andrew's hair, as he and Neil rowed their little boat. He was smiling, and Neil was smiling, and nothing about this place was less than happy. This day would always remain like that: untainted, a delight. He saw Andrew's mouth moving, and somewhere in his mind he heard the words as if he was back in that boat, discovering that he had fallen. This was what he was giving up—

He knew that.

He could hear Andrew telling him to stay. And he could see Andrew in front of him, bidding him to leave everything of his behind, including his memories, his life.

He remained standing, because if he sat down he wouldn't stand again, and really—he had to go. He felt like he had months ago, when he had sat in an empty apartment in Charleston, waiting to feel ready to go to Dubai. But he had been preparing himself to say goodbye to Andrew for months. He had to leave. This was the last thing he wanted to see: this was what he wanted to remember, if he could. The memory of a happier Andrew, an Andrew alive. When he snapped his fingers, this boy wouldn't die again.

He raised his hand in position, and—

_No._

He appeared back in Dubai just a second after he had left, horrified at his own recklessness—a second too early and he would have merged with himself, formed a loop—but more at the idea that he hadn't said it. He had been wrong—he couldn't leave without saying goodbye, even if he never used those words. It didn't matter that he was doing this for the boy in the boat; he had chosen to leave him a long time back, had had time to come to terms with forgetting him. He had had no time to come to terms with forgetting Andrew, because he had never really thought of it as leaving him, too.

Andrew gave him a look that said he was stupid for reappearing here, so Neil changed his mind again, and said, "I wish I didn't have to forget kissing you."

"We don't always get what we want," Andrew said.

Neil allowed himself a deprecating half-smile, felt his heart drop to some place where he couldn't reach it, where it couldn't hurt. "But this time, I do."

He raised his hand, and waited until Andrew did the same. For a wild second, he imagined taking his hand and Jumping back together, until they had both never met Andrew and Neil, and it was just the two of them—not the first time they met, but not the last, either. It was impossible, though, and Neil was suddenly tired of his delusions.

Andrew said, "I probably won't see you on the other side."

And they Jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! the second to last chapter is here and it is. super late, but! the last chapter is actually done being written (and is _way_ longer than it was meant to be, which is hopefully a bonus?), so that's good! tons of thanks to everyone who has kudos'ed or commented - i took a while, but i think i've replied to all the comments, at least?
> 
> anyway, hit me up on tumblr to scream about this at neilexysts? if you made it this far, i love you


	5. the bittersweet between my teeth

A month, or maybe more. Time passed—time always passed—and he was in Santiago and then Ankara and then Singapore and then Durban and then New York City. Maybe somewhere in between he was in Lagos, or Hong Kong, or Madrid, but it was impossible to tell. The only memories that were real involved gunshots and smoke and blood, and when he woke up he expected her to be next to him, and when he turned a corner there was always someone waiting. He had always imagined that he would Jump less if it were left to him to decide, but she had been right in the end—it wasn't safe to stay anywhere, was it? Was he being followed? No, he wasn't, but he felt it, he felt haunted. Like something was following him, and it might be her or it might be a ghost or it might be his father. Or it might be nothing.

He didn't want to be paranoid, he couldn't Jump as often as this, he would tire out—but his fingers always felt ready to go, sitting down was too dangerous because _you couldn't Jump sitting down—_ and every single time he snapped and they slid, every time nothing happened, he sank further and further. He was being caged in, but he didn't know by what, and every Jump should have freed him but it didn't. It just—it did _nothing_. There were ghosts everywhere. What could he _do_ to stop being trapped?

Snap: Nassau. Snap: Dallas. Snap: São Paulo. Snap: Lima.

 

—

 

**_San Antonio, 1883_ **

_On the other side of the room, Andrew looked quiet and somewhat distracted, watching the dancing couples almost vacantly. In the poor lighting, he was nearly luminary, and everything about him caught the eye—his arms in the white shirt, jacket abandoned, his hair, his eyes, almost golden. Neil excused himself from the conversation as the reel came to an end and the couples began to clap, and by the time he made it through the quickly forming crowd, Andrew looked far less lost in thought._

_All the same, Neil said, "Lost in thought?"_

_Andrew hummed low under his breath, not quite turning to face him. "We leave tomorrow."_

_Neil nodded, then did his best to bury his hands in his trouser pockets. "I've told you, I could come with. There's always need of more wranglers, right? It's a big group—no one would mind." It was true; most of the neighbors seemed to like him, which was odd, but not entirely a bad thing, especially if it meant he could find a way to follow the drive. It was impossible to convince Andrew out of it, even though the idea of him leaving for the next two months was terrifying—he could be here two months later in a snap, but he couldn't be sure that Andrew would be back at all. He didn't know which was worse; to have to see him die, or know that he had, somewhere else._

_"I've told you before, no," Andrew snapped, and Neil quieted. He had no way to explain to him the panic that lodged in his gut at the thought of him taking off. Cattle drives could be dangerous—there could be stampedes—two months was a long time if you had to live each second of them. After a few seconds, Andrew looked his way for a moment, and Neil sighed. "Why would you want to come? Drives are exhausting. We wouldn't have a minute of time to ourselves, if that's what you expect."_

_"Andrew," he said softly. "It's not time alone. It's just—two months is a long time. We only met three weeks ago." He laughed under his breath. "What if you find someone else_ interesting _in Kansas? Or another cowboy, someone who knows what he's doing?" Next to him, Andrew let out a huff of irritation, and Neil laughed again. It was the last of his worries, and he knew that he shouldn't be—jealous, or—_ anything _, because Andrew owed him nothing._ But— _jealousy, he told himself, was irrational. And Andrew had kissed him first._

_Andrew looked at him as though Neil had just told him the moon was made of cheese. He grinned, refusing to be embarrassed, and when Andrew looked away with irritation, he hummed. "Alright, I'm not worried about that, not really. But I'd like to come all the same." When Andrew looked back at him, there was something intent in his eyes, and Neil could feel the breath stop halfway to his lungs. Shadows played across Andrew's face as the dancers moved through the reel, and despite the sound of their footsteps and the fiddling and the chatter in the background, everything felt quiet. Enclosed._

_Andrew seemed to be thinking something along the same lines, because he turned his head sharply away. "Not here," he said, and after a moment, "If you really want to come, talk to Knox. If you hate it, I'm not responsible."_

_Neil allowed himself a grin, and resisted the urge to move closer to Andrew, an almost-constant urge since he had kissed him three days ago. Instead, he looked toward the dancing crowd, all of them running under an arch of arms. It was not as much fun as it looked, he knew, but maybe that was just because he didn't enjoy dancing. Allison, currently partnered with a tall man who was usually glaring but wasn't now, seemed to be enjoying herself thoroughly. With her bright golden curls flying as she twirled through partners, he felt like he was in another time, meeting another Allison for the first (and last) time before she returned to England._

_He wondered when she had gotten the letter about her brother, if they had shipped his corpse back to be buried. He would make sure this one didn't have to get a similar letter._

_"What are you thinking?" Andrew asked, and he shook his head, removing himself from Madras. That was over—he had done what he could, and it had been so long ago, and there was nothing he could do for that Andrew. This one, though. It was a cycle, he knew, and somewhere he was certain that_ something _would happen, but if he could just be around him, make sure he was safe, he could—well. He could try. He could_ try _to make sure this wouldn't be another Johannesburg, or another Muscat, or another Dundee. This time—but he told himself the same thing every time._

_"Neil," Andrew said, snapping him out of his mind properly this time._

_"I was thinking," he said, apologetic. He didn't mean to fall down that rabbit hole—didn't even mean to think about all of those other times when he should be thinking about_ now _, but Johannesburg had followed fast on the heels of Muscat, and it_ hurt _. These three weeks had been nice, but everything felt more dangerous here. Maybe it was because everything was right out of a country western, from Andrew's corduroy vest to the hat he wore returning from watching cattle._

_Andrew made an irritated noise and turned his head away just a little. The back of his neck was covered in sweat. "You should stop. It might prove dangerous."_

_Neil laughed, rocking a little on his heels. "I don't know, I've made it this far."_

_"I don't know how you managed it."_

_"I don't know," he said, "I think I have good survival instincts." Apparently it was ridiculous enough that Andrew turned around to stare at him with some incredulity._

_"I don't think wanting to join a cattle drive for no reason can be called having good survival instincts."_

_Neil leaned in just a little, still far enough that he wasn't in Andrew's personal space, and whispered, "I don't think_ this _can be called no reason."_

_Andrew was very still, and Neil frowned as he moved quickly away, not sure if he had done something wrong. When Andrew finally spoke, he said, "You are meant to be_ courting _my sister, not me." Neil looked up and found two people in the corner staring at them, doing their best to look discreet. It was their cover, so to speak—the reason he was at their house so often. He had suggested that he could visit him near the bunkhouse, where no one would know whom he was visiting, but Andrew didn't think it would work. So, here he was, and half the people here thought he liked Allison, and hung around Andrew trying to earn his_ approval _—fortunately, this list didn't include Allison._

_"Right," he said, trying to summon up a smile. "Should I look jealous that she's dancing with someone else?"_

_Andrew gave him a cool look. "If you expect to be the only one dancing with her three weeks after you met, you're very wrong."_

_He sighed, and turned around, taking a step backward, still facing Andrew. "Where are you going?" Andrew asked, and Neil winked._

_"To ask your sister for a dance."_

 

—

 

In the second month after Los Angeles, he went to late 20th century Helsinki, hours spent in walks along the waterfront. There was the ocean, boats bobbing pleasantly along, blue skies and blue waters. It was dull—he didn't know what to do, really. There was no reason for him to stay there, but there didn't feel like a reason to stay anywhere. He tried to play tourist, paying for a room in a tiny bed and breakfast, but spending all his time outdoors, as though the sight of four walls would choke him, even though it had happened outdoors. Outdoors he could not be cornered, that was for certain, and there were always people. Was anyone trying to corner him? He didn't think so, but it was better than being indoors, where he felt caged, boxed in.

He lasted eleven days before he passed by a steamer as it took away, smoke filling the air like a cloud of filth. He was useless—his fingers slid across each other as he tried to snap, snap, _snap_ , but nothing ever happened, and if he Jumped away he was always back to the docks before he could make it very far. His fingers were slick from sweat or something else, and he was trapped, oh, he would never Jump again, and he couldn't stay here, his Finnish was poor, he didn't have money or clothes or anything, and he had always been a Jumper and didn't know how not to be a Jumper, and there was nothing, nothing—

He closed his eyes and tried. _Anywhere but California_. For a second he needed to save her again, he could bring her back, because he couldn't do this on his own, he didn't know _how_.

His fingers found friction finally, and his Jump away was sloppy and messy and his mother would have—

His mother—

 

—

 

It had been three months since Los Angeles, and it was impossible to stay anywhere too long. None of that mattered, though—it didn't make a difference where he went and how long he stayed, because nothing entered his memory. He saw things and heard things and said things, and people moved on around him, and he felt the seconds that clicked past in his head disappear when he looked up. Things happened around him, and he happened around things. He was disconnected, afloat, and the whole world and all of time was his ocean. He appeared and disappeared at will—a delight.

Where was he going? What was he going to do? What was he running from? It didn't matter. He was alone, his mother had—he was alone, and he was someone new to everyone who asked. Thrilling, really, the thought that he was anything to anyone at all. But—he was a name and a face, sometimes. To the old woman in Quito who frowned as though she saw something on his face she didn't like, he was James. To the man who found him jerking awake on a bench in Lucknow, he was Tony. To the little kid who asked him his name on a rusty swing in a playground in Ottawa, he was Gabriel.

In his dreams, he was Alex, and he was in Los Angeles, and sometimes there was an explosion, and sometimes there was a gunshot, and sometimes there was blood on his hands.

That was okay, though, because when he woke up there was no blood, and he didn't have his mother but there were no gunshots either.

In Quito, a car backfired close enough that he couldn't breath for a second. More than a second. How much time did he miss in the seconds he couldn't count? In Ottawa, the speakers at a mall called for Alexis' parents to come to the reception, please, your child is lost and wants you, and—in Lucknow, there was a furious storm, and the thunder shouldn't have made his ears ring, but it did, and the lightning _shouldn't have_ made his eyes flash, but it did.

He left, and left, and left. He was afloat.

 

—

 

**Charleston, 2011**

In the fourth month after his mother's death, he bought a house. Charleston was a nice city, with architecture he could place by time but not by name, cobblestone streets and lamp posts around corners. It was far enough from Maryland that he had no real reason to worry, and as long as he used a false name on the deed and documents (he did) and didn't spend too long there, he would have no trouble. Most importantly, it was a stash for emergencies, and it wasn't his mother's—the first trip to her house had him a wreck, and he couldn't afford a breakdown like that again.

First: he found an apartment he liked. This was less about taste and more about utility, and he forced himself to go about it with the sort of logic she would have used: it couldn't be too expensive; it couldn't be in an unsafe neighborhood, as he was storing money and couldn't have thieves finding it; it couldn't be too noticeable, as he would not be around often enough for elaborate upkeep. In the end, he found a small place that he thought might be charming, with thin maroon carpeting and a bright blue striped wallpaper, one bedroom and a bathroom and a kitchen that no cook would like, but would suffice for his purposes.

Then: he furnished it. First came a sofa, which he made the mistake of purchasing in the 1940s because it came cheap—then a bed, which he bought in 1999 and justified the cost by attempting to sleep in it. Sleep did not come without dreams, so he did his best not to sleep at all, and hoped that when he did collapse from exhaustion he would be too tired to dream. It was a vain hope, because whatever he did, he was stuck with the same nightmares whenever he _did_ sleep. He was exhausted constantly, but he didn't need to _not_ be exhausted to stock the house.

It was tiresome work, as he was Jumping back and forth from time to time to make sure the apartment was stocked with everything he needed by 2000, at least. The food he would have to replenish every few years, but he thought he could deal with that when it came to it. He purchased enough canned food to fill a shopping cart, and smiled when the cashier asked if he was building a fallout shelter.

Next: guns, but only a few, which was in part because he could barely just stand to hold them and in part because he didn't think he would need weapons, anyway—and money, because that was the first thing he needed in any new place he went to. This he brought from his mother's stash—no one would be using it now, and he needed what he needed. His mother had planned to live long; whatever contacts she had that had helped her acquire everything were lost to him, and in any case he wouldn't trust most of them, and they wouldn't trust him just because he was Mary's son.

And when his house was ready, he spent no time in it at all except to sleep and shower.

Charleston was nice, a big enough city that no one paid much attention to him. He explored as much of the city as he could in 1997 and 1971 and 2011, and when he got bored of one time he'd look at it in another, a snapshot of different eras, collected like a photo album. If he was to have a safe-house here, he needed to know everything about the city; it was easier than admitting to himself that leaving was as difficult as staying put was. He read the news, equal parts eager and terrified to find any mention of his father. He gave himself the opportunity to enjoy the twenty-first century and all its amenities like his mother would never have allowed, and absorbed all of it, its color and noise and brightness, because he wouldn't be back for months yet, if all went well—and that was the plan.

He had a plan now. If there was nothing on it now, then there would be.

He lasted another two weeks, and then he passed by a family barbecuing at the park, and the smoke caught in his nose, and though it was smelled like charred meat, he knew he had to go.

So he went.

 

—

 

**Southampton, 1912**

Six months after his mother died, he landed in Southampton. It was not yet spring, and everything was pleasant but with a bite, and he gave himself a real name for the first time since Los Angeles. He was Jacob, a young American who was in England for something or the other—he didn't speak to many people, and they didn't ask.

Without his mother to supervise constantly, he didn't know what to do, which he was realizing for the first time since her death; it was ridiculous, that after all these years of having gone from time to time with no goal in mind except _away_ , he should be at a loss to what to do now that he had no goal at all. So he made Jacob a tourist, and explored the city, and wondered what it was that Jumpers did when they didn't plan to run. He was past the school phase, and he didn't want to work—didn't think he could settle long enough to _work_ anywhere, in any case—and his mother may have been wrong about being followed still, but he had to be ready to leave at a moment's notice.

So Jacob met people and smiled as jovially as he could at the friendly woman with the bob, the curiously blank-faced American, the bright-eyed deb who kept trying to ask for his card. He explored the market and bought fresh fruit; he read books and took walks and considered learning how to play cricket. He slept a little better than he had for months, which helped considerably, and even if it was on flea-ridden hard mattresses, it was better than nothing. One week, two weeks, three weeks—he was too lethargic to leave, he was bored of this place. Jumping felt like a chore he could avoid, because there was no one to make him go. Four weeks, five weeks, and Southampton was boring, and everything was dull and the sun barely shone, but Jacob didn't want to Jump.

Not that _Jacob_ could Jump. He could, but he wasn't Jacob, felt him like a mask rather than an identity.

Six weeks into Southampton, and everyone was suddenly talking about the _RMS Titanic_. For a minute, he considered boarding it—a death in the ice would be better than being shot, or being under a falling building, or burning—and then he realized what he was thinking, and left Southampton behind.

 

—

 

**Palermo, 1999**

In the eighth month after his mother's death, he was Stefan in Italy, and as he roamed around an outdoor market wondering about swimming, he overheard two women arguing mildly as they walked past him, hand in hand. It was a pleasantly warm day, and someone was playing music nearby, and the sky had barely-there fluffy white clouds, and Stefan felt like a name more than a costume. There was a man at the corner of the street distributing handouts advertising some sort of tour, and Stefan was able to manage something like a smile as he declined.

The first woman said something about how _you need to get out more_ , and the second replied, _I'm out right now_ , and the first said, _Grocery shopping should not count as_ out. He felt like an eavesdropper for listening into what seemed to be a private conversation, but when the first woman said _you need a hobby_ , Stefan paused as well.

A _hobby_.

There was no time for pursuing hobbies when one was on the run, this had been made explicit to him very soon after they ran away. She had allowed him his enjoyments, of course—he could never Jump away, the way he knew some Jumpers did, _sightseeing_ —but he had touched on things. No sport, which he assumed had at least in _part_ contributed to his rather small frame—craft, sometimes, or sewing, anything that might help them in the future as long as it didn't need classes. If he could learn it on his own, that was good. If it kept him quiet and out of her hair for a few hours every day, that was even better.

Of course, everything had to be abandoned the minute they had to leave. Stefan hadn't minded then—or maybe he had, and then one day, after it happened the fifth time, or the tenth, he simply stopped. As a result, there was nothing he really knew to do, nothing he _could_ do for enjoyment's sake alone. But then, people on the run didn't need to _enjoy_ anything. That was fine; it was the only way to survive. He had adapted.

But he wasn't on the run anymore.

In Southampton, Stefan— _Jacob—_ had been at loose ends, with nothing to do and no idea what he wanted. A hobby; he could do anything he liked, play a sport or rock climb or learn to paint, and if none of those things sounded very interesting to him, well, something would.

Maybe.

Stefan turned around, and when he got to the corner of the street, he took one of the handouts.

The tour was of the Valley of Temples, and while Stefan got bored, while there he heard someone talking about a bike tour of the city—he signed up for that, too, a few days later, and this one he enjoyed more. He lasted in Palermo for two weeks, and once he began to itch to leave, instead of Jumping away he took a train to Catania, where he went hiking and and saw the inside of chapels. It wasn't all fun, but it was more than anything he had done before; more than he had done in Southampton, where he had thought he was playing tourist. From there he took a ferry to Naples, where he took a cooking class (and discovered he was a very poor cook), visited a buried city, and ate more gelato than he had had in his whole life.

When he left, it was just because he wanted to, and that felt like a lot.

 

—

 

_**Sankt Goarshausen, 1703** _

_Across from him, Andrew smiled broader than Neil had ever seen on him, something more natural than Neil could have imagined had he not witnessed it himself. And while Andrew was looking at him, he knew it wasn't about him, not really—it was about the rocks surrounding him, the song of the Lorelei and the impossibility of traveling in time. But they had, they had._

_Neil_ was _the impossible. Here, with the sun almost blindingly bright and the water stunningly blue and Andrew's smile blinding, it almost felt like a good thing._

_He leaned back a touch, careful not to rock the little boat too much. When he was seated comfortably, he reached out with one leg and nudged Andrew. "Do you like it?" he asked, even though this wasn't the first time they had come here. Andrew's wide-eyed joy then was answer enough to his question now, but somehow he wanted to hear it put in words._

_In response, Andrew began to_ hum— _another impossibility made real. And just as Neil recognized the song, he felt something within him stop, like a crash, or the edge of a cliff, or a key clicking into a lock, a fit. He felt helplessly fond, like he couldn't but control this—this_ wellspring _of emotion that he didn't know he could contain. When had this happened? And Andrew sang of the loveliest maiden sitting, so wondrous fair, golden jewelry glistening as she combed her golden hair, and Neil loved him._

_Andrew sang like he had been taught. He finished with the last verse repeated twice, and when he was done he looked at Neil like a challenge, and he felt young,_ too young _, even though he was only a year younger than Neil, and Neil knew he would do anything to keep him alive, even steal him from his time if he asked._

_Neil thought:_ I love him _, and he thought:_ shit _, because he had already seen two of him die._

_But he couldn't say any of those things, so he only said, "I didn't know you could sing," and reveled in it when Andrew smiled again._

 

—

 

Ten months after his mother's death, he looked up the Battle of Los Angeles.

 

—

 

**Cairo, 2006**

In the eleventh month after his mother's death, he found himself in the Egyptian Museum at Cairo, doing his best to appreciate the art. He was Jumping aimlessly these days, and he had landed in the city with full intention of exploring it. But it was hot, and within half an hour of looking around he had found that it was far too dry outdoors to enjoy himself.

The museum was _something_ , but most of the symbolism of any art had largely eluded him so far, and as a Jumper seeing history from the present held little interest; nothing was better hundreds of years later, and if he wanted to look at something, he could go back in time and see it. But he was here now, and the museum was huge, bigger than it had looked from the outside, somehow. He was determined to find something of interest, and more importantly didn't feel quite like Jumping away from Cairo immediately.

He was in a room containing furniture from a queen's tomb when he saw something familiar through the door, and frowned as he headed out of the room. There was no one there that he would recognize, though; the last time he had been to Egypt was in the early nineteenth century, and they had spent all of a month in Giza, barely speaking to anyone. He had no contacts here, and to his knowledge there was nothing about this place that should be familiar. All the same, as he squinted at the slowly building crowd, something familiar struck out at him, more a feeling than something he could pinpoint.

He waited, and when his eyes caught on a blond turning to go into the next room, he followed, feeling vaguely ridiculous. It was just a blond, that didn't mean anything—but something about the man had caught his attention, and he was curious now. He followed him into a room he had been into already, found him standing by two twin carved statues, reading the label. He ambled toward him slowly, wondering if he had seen him somewhere before. There was nothing about him that stood out, up close; he was in all black from the bands covering his arms to his jeans, which seemed disastrous in the heat outside. There was no hint as to where they might have met, until he saw his face.

"I've seen you somewhere," he said, when the man volunteered nothing. His features were familiar—more than familiar, really, but casting around in his mind was doing nothing. He had definitely seen him before. He had no idea where he had seen him before.

"Really," the man replied, and the voice confirmed it. It had been months, but between the tone and the accent and the expression (or lack of) he remembered where he had seen him; Southampton, but he had been wearing a suit that wasn't out of place for the time, and he was altogether too young in 2006 to have been the same age in Southampton, too.

"Southampton. You're a Jumper."

The man didn't react, which was both surprising and somehow not. The man didn't respond, only giving him a pointed look before turning back to the statues he was observing.

He frowned, taking a step or two back from him, half-pretending to look at the art. There was nothing about this man that said _dangerous_ or _following him_ ; everything about his posture and quietness said he would rather be left alone—but could he take the chance that he wasn't following him? He hadn't been followed anywhere since Los Angeles, he was certain, and even then, her—his _mother's—_ paranoia had felt like running blind more than her usual calculated Jumps. Her death was an accident, he knew now, and it had been so long since his father had sent anyone after him. The man seemed too young to be one of his father's men besides, and not exactly the type.

He walked carefully away, watching the stranger for any kind of response, but there was nothing. He simply watched the statues, then moved on to the next, sparing him not even a stray glance.

The museum, he decided, could wait another day. And if he found a blank-faced blond in the souq or the dam or the park, he'd know he was being followed.

 

—

 

**Pretoria, 2000**

In Pretoria, Andrew went hiking, took a nature trail, then visited a nature reserve to see a tree that was a thousand years old. It was, unfortunately, a rather disappointing visit—thousand-year-old trees looked, it turned out, like small forests, but in the end he couldn't spend more than a few minutes looking at them. The reserve had little otherwise to look at, but since he was here he decided to go look at the fort that sat at the top of it. The fort was also over a hundred years old and had been abandoned for most of that time, and it showed; it was derelict, old bricks a dull red color, some stones blackened with age, archways looking perilously close to falling apart. There weren't many people here to look at it, so he was surprised when he saw a familiar blond standing by the vantage, looking down at the city.

"You again," he said, and took the tiniest bit of satisfaction in the man's second of freezing before he turned around. "Are you sure you're not following me?" If the man had actually been tracking him, it might have been dangerous to tell him that, especially standing so close to the side of a cliff—but Andrew knew that he definitely hadn't been trailed in Cairo. On the other hand, it was impossible to tell if that had been because of the blond's being caught out in the museum, or because he just _wasn't_ following him.

"From here it looks more like _you_ are following me."

Andrew blinked. It seemed too much a coincidence for them to run into each other in three different places and three different times, and Andrew didn't believe in coincidence. If he was being followed, then this man was doing a better job of it than anyone had, as really he had nothing planned before he Jumped. But—in this case, the blond had already been here when Andrew arrived. Even the best tracker couldn't be anywhere before their target.

"I'm not," he said. "How long have you been in Pretoria?"

The man didn't answer, and instead stared out at the city. Andrew crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, hoping it was stronger than it looked. The view was amazing—the city was spread out as far as he could see, with distant blue hills marking an end to it. If he leaned forward enough, though, he would fall. Andrew shot a look to the blond's feet, decided he was standing too far away to catch him or push him off, and looked away. He didn't think the man was going to try to fight him, spy or not, but Andrew thought he could probably take him. He was better-muscled than Andrew, but also shorter, and Andrew knew how to defend himself.

"What's your name?" he tried again, when it became clear no answer was forthcoming.

"You're following me," the man said. "What's yours?"

He rolled his eyes at the pointless hostility, and said, "Andrew."

The man stared at him at this. "No."

He frowned. "What do you mean 'no'? It's my name." He had chosen it two cities over, in Johannesburg, right after he arrived. There had been something familiar about that place, too—but these days most places gave him that feeling, like he had been there before and forgotten. Andrew was afraid he knew what exactly had caused it: the few months right after Los Angeles, when he had Jumped blindly and too often, and forgotten half of what he did. That meant he had no way to erase this feeling, as he would never remember entirely what he had done during that time, especially if he had Jumped back more than once.

It was frustrating, but there was no solution.

"Andrew is not your name."

He raised an eyebrow, raising one hand behind his back in case the man even began to imply what his name _might_ be (should be, was, wasn't). "Why not?"

"Because it's mine."

That made him stop. "Your name is Andrew," he said, oddly surprised—because that _had_ to be _more than_ co-incidence; there was no way he had simply taken on a name before finding, once again, a man who had the same one. In any case, he couldn't be Andrew anymore, but that didn't matter. Names didn't stick to him these days, and he could take them off as easily as changing clothes. It was possibly because he was so used to not having a permanent name; before, he had chosen a new one every time he and his mother Jumped away. It was the same thing he was doing now, but now there was no one to call him by it, which made all the difference.

Andrew looked annoyed. "Yes."

He sighed, then gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Alright, my name isn't Andrew."

"Then what is it?"

He cast around for a name, and came up blank—then decided that whether he was being followed or not, he had no reason to give the man, Andrew, a name. It had been three weeks since Cairo, and while he wasn't going to be chased out of a city by him, he didn't exactly plan to get to know him. "Don't have one yet," he said, leaning back into a posture more casual than he felt.

"What do you mean." It sounded more like a statement than a question, and while his face remained curiously wiped of any emotion, he could almost feel the irritation that his words were loaded with. He hadn't even done anything.

"I've been Andrew for a few days, but since that's your name, I can't keep it. And I haven't chosen something new yet."

It was as though waves of pure irritation were rolling off Andrew and onto him. He felt vaguely amused, though he wasn't sure why—getting verbal responses and knowing his name when Andrew didn't know his made him feel oddly like he had an upper hand in this conversation. It was an odd feeling, but satisfying.

"You haven't chosen a name yet."

"No."

"Then choose one now."

He pretended to think about it, but changed his mind and said, "I don't think so." He walked away backward, keeping one eye on Andrew's hands and feet in case he decided to Jump, or do something otherwise dangerous. He didn't.

 

—

 

**Hanoi, 1982**

When Francis saw a familiar figure standing by the lake and looking out at it, he almost rolled his eyes. Once again, he couldn't blame Andrew for following him, because it looked more like _he_ was following Andrew.

"Andrew," he said, as false-bright as he could make it, and watched the quelling of the _mildest_ hint of irritation on his face as he turned around. "Nice to see you again." It was not—nice. While he was now fairly certain that he wasn't being followed, not actively at least, there was something tiring about the repetitiveness of this. There were no such things as _coincidences_ when you were a Jumper, and more so when you were Francis.

"Is it?" Andrew asked, turning back around.

Francis meandered slowly toward where Andrew stood, right by the shore of the lake, looking out as intensely as he had at the city view in Pretoria. Was it because of some sort of love of nature, or was that his permanent expression? Andrew stood silently next to him, observing, and Francis took the chance to see what he had come here to see; the still lake, reflecting the rather grey sky right until the end, when it was overtaken by dark trees and buildings. It was smooth enough to be a mirror; in it, Francis could see himself and Andrew, standing next to each other, but shortened and blurred, like he was looking at them from far away.

There was something impossibly familiar about that image. Francis blinked down at the reflection, and when the feeling it gave him didn't disappear, he looked away.

"What are you doing here?"

Francis looked at him, raising an eyebrow. Up until this point, he had been _more or less_ sure that Andrew wanted nothing to do with him, which wasn't entirely surprising. Francis didn't want anything to do with him, either, short of finding out how they kept running into each other. He said, "Looking out at the lake. Very nice, isn't it?"

Andrew made a show of giving him a look, and while it was completely blank, it was impressive in how well it told him just _what_ Andrew thought of that answer. "What are you doing in Hanoi?" he clarified, as slow as if he was speaking to a toddler.

Francis leaned back on his heels, rocking slowly back and forth. There didn't seem to be any harm in telling him, and Francis wanted to know what he would do with that knowledge. "Chasing a hobby," he said, eventually. It wasn't much of an answer now that he _thought_ about it, but then he hadn't had a plan when he Jumped here. What would anyone else say, if asked this? What would _Andrew_ say? What would a normal person do in a new city, someone who hadn't spent their entire life Jumping here and away just to survive—

"Chasing a hobby," Andrew repeated, monotone.

"Do you have a problem with hobbies?" Francis asked as he rocked forward, just out of Andrew's personal bubble.

Andrew said, "No. You don't chase a hobby."

Francis shrugged and stopped rocking, then changed his mind and started again. He _knew_ that most people probably didn't do this, but giving himself a location and an (albeit rough) mental plan to do everything he could in that place was far better than aimlessly Jumping. More importantly, it meant he knew when to Jump away; if he was out of things to do, it was time to go. At some point, he would stop feeling nauseous when he raised his fingers to snap away. But he didn't have to explain himself to Andrew, who didn't even know him, and didn't intend to try. "I do," he said.

Maybe Andrew sensed that it was a pointless argument, because after minutes of quiet, he spoke up: "Have you caught one yet?"

Francis smiled. "No, but I've got a whole city to find one." And then, on a whim, "If you think I'm doing it wrong, you can join me."

Andrew turned to face him once again, and he looked so little caught off guard, that for a second Francis was surprised. He didn't know how Andrew had trained his face to give so little away, but it was becoming a sort of—puzzle. Challenge, maybe. _What was Andrew thinking?_ There was no way to tell, except from what he said. Was any hint of expression Francis _had_ noticed just Andrew projecting his emotions for Francis' benefit?

Andrew said, "What is your name?"

He opened his mouth to say _Francis_ , and then closed it, because it didn't sound right. That made no sense, because Andrew couldn't know him by any other name—by any name at all—but there was something that felt distinctly _off_ about giving him the fake name. He frowned, disgruntled at the _not right_ feeling that came with the idea. This was the second time he had shed a name because of Andrew, and he didn't know why.

"I don't have one yet," he said, doing his best to inject cheer into his voice. It was unexpectedly straining. Hopefully Andrew would interpret it as him trying to be as secretive as possible, or as trying to annoy him—and not as what it was, some small part of his brain saying _no no no_ to Francis.

Andrew rolled his eyes, but accepted it. No-longer-Francis made a large sweeping gesture to where the city rose on the other side of the lake, and when he turned around, Andrew followed.

 

—

 

**Berlin, 1846**

Berlin's markets were always packed with crowds, whether he was in the twenty-first century or the nineteenth.

From what he had seen of the city so far, it was a place of symmetry, but the order was rendered invisible by all the _people_. The narrow roads ran parallel to each other, but they looked too full to see it immediately, with people and horses and carts and carriages enough to take up every inch of space. So far, though, Jack liked it here. Every street felt like one he had walked before, though that was likely because they were all so similar. It was loud and bustling, and it was full of _colorful_ smells, but it was pleasant. He wasn't sure what exactly he would find in nineteenth century Berlin that would hold his attention, but he fully intended to look.

So when he came face-to-back with a certain person who was growing increasingly familiar, he grinned and decided that, well, if Andrew didn't mind _terribly_ , Jack would recruit him in finding something for the two of them to do. Maybe this time, he would even tell him his name—or maybe not.

Despite the oddness of their many run-ins, he had almost enjoyed himself exploring Hanoi with Andrew. Andrew didn't speak Vietnamese, but Jack—though he hadn't been Jack then—did, just enough to get by, and Andrew had apparently been to the city before. Between the two of them, they figured out a city map, and made a shortlist, of sorts. They had only ended up visiting the Old Quarter and a Buddhist temple complex before Andrew took off, not keen on staying there for longer than a day, but between the plans they had discarded and the brochures Andrew had _somehow_ acquired, he had had plenty to do for another two weeks.

Jack began to make his way through the jostling crowd, keeping one eye on Andrew's head, which stood out even in a sea of blonds. But it was Sunday, and the crowds were particularly wild, and Jack kept being pushed back two steps for every step forward he took. He stood on his toes to squint out at the crowd, and found that Andrew, despite being shorter than even Jack was, had somehow managed to get out of the crowd and onto the corner of a street, where he stood at an angle, looking away like he was waiting for something. He was dressed in period-appropriate clothing, which looked strange, but he supposed was just good habit.

Jack kept going, frustratingly aware that he was going _against_ the flow of the crowd, which was being attracted to some sort of puppet theater being put up on the other end of the street. It had sounded interesting five minutes ago, and while it still _sort of_ did, he would rather company—and the chance to irritate Andrew as much as possible, something that was a little more satisfying than an entire _city_ could be—than hand puppets.

Just as he finally made it to the end of the crowd, Jack stopped.

Andrew had, in fact, been waiting. And the person he had been waiting for—was him.

Jack froze and was abruptly pushed two feet backward because of the lack of movement, but it didn't matter; he couldn't go there anymore, not if Andrew was with him. To go closer was to risk being merged with himself—except, now that he looked—

The other Jack was also dressed in fairly period-appropriate clothing for a worker in this era. His hair was cut short, but was still considerably longer than Jack wore it right now, and was his natural auburn, the way Jack hadn't seen it in _years_. With his mother, he had always dyed it as part of their disguises, and he had kept it up for a few months after, too. Right now, it was an ashy brown shade that was fading quickly; he hadn't given much thought to his hair in months. But it wasn't just the other Jack's hair that was odd, it was something else, too, something that didn't look right.

Then the other Jack laughed, and as he did he turned just a little, and Jack felt all the breath leave him. He was too far away to confirm it, but even from here he could see that this Jack, or _not_ Jack, whoever he was, was too young to be him—and, more importantly, half his face was covered in brutal scarring, from his left eye down to the corner of his mouth. Even Andrew looked different from the Andrew he knew; for one, there was a far clearer expression on his face than Jack had ever seen on Andrew. He was better-built, too, with muscle on him like he did a lot of heavy lifting, and he wasn't wearing all black.

There was _something_ wrong here, and his chest had been taken over by a sinking feeling like something was _wrong_ , and another of familiarity or recognition, though that made no sense at all.

Jack turned around and headed away, getting lost in the crowd. Whatever was going on here, he would figure it out. But first, he had to leave.

 

—

 

**Thrissur, 1974**

When he Jumped, he thought _Andrew_ , which somehow had him landing face-to-face with a certain unimpressed blond.

He said, "Andrew." He was about a foot away from him, staring directly down at him, and as he began to take a quick step backward Andrew reached out and caught hold of his collar, holding him in place. "What," he began, then left off as his foot slid off the ground. He chanced a look backward and stared down; behind him was a railing, high enough that no one could fall, but dangerously far from the ground. He wouldn't have been able to step back very far, but he might have slipped—and falling meant nothing, nothing, nothing, and then rushing water.

Andrew pulled him forward and let go of his t-shirt collar. His heart was beating a jackrabbit beat in his ears, and his breath felt destroyed.

Jumping was a thing of instinct for him, or that was what his mother had always said. His aim was not perfect, but his Jumps generally took him where he needed to go. In this case, he had thought of Andrew, and landed right in front of him—but this wasn't what he had intended. One careless step, or a tiny slip, and half his body would have been down the bridge. He shook himself, still breathing heavy—Andrew was not openly glaring at him, but Jack could almost feel waves of something angry coming off of him.

" _What_ were you thinking?" Andrew asked, his tone awkwardly flat against the tension in his shoulders.

"I wasn't thinking—I just landed here, I didn't realize we were on a bridge."

Andrew shot him a look that told him just _what_ he thought of that response, but then it was gone as quick as it had come, and he was left wondering if he had imagined it. "Do you simply Jump without thinking and hope for the best?" Andrew asked.

"Not usually," he said. "I don't normally Jump so recklessly." He didn't want to say that of late he _did_ , in fact, Jump without putting too much thought into it—his instinct had not failed him much before, and he had nowhere to go. If he was focused on anything, it was landing on the ground, not buried somewhere or in the air. But it wasn't _not thinking_ that had endangered him just now; it was thinking of Andrew.

"No?" Andrew asked.

He shook himself, stepping away from Andrew once again, this time to the side. He kept one careful eye on the space between his foot and the edge of the railing, keeping it a fair distance away. "Where are we?" he asked, looking around. They were on top of some river or the other, in the middle of a narrow bridge that led to a viewing port of some sort. On either side of the river were low sloping hills, colored bright green in the sun.

"Vazhani Dam, Kerala. India. It's 1974." He knew perfectly well where Kerala was, and what year it was (and the date, and the day of the week, and the exact minute), but it seemed rude to say that, especially after Andrew might have just saved his life, and _he_ was the one who had made that necessary. "Did you not know where you were Jumping to?"

He shook his head, pushing his hands into his pockets. "I was Jumping to you." Andrew gave him the same unimpressed stare, and Jack continued, "I saw—"

He snapped off, closing his mouth. What had he seen? Another Andrew, and another him. Andrew was wearing era-appropriate clothing. _He_ had looked younger, and had a huge scar over his face. But had he really looked younger? What if he had misunderstood—what if _that_ was him, but from the future? There was no knowing, and maybe—

But, no. It couldn't have been. He had been certain then that the boy was too young to be him. If he closed his eyes and thought about it, he would find other things, too. Had he had signs of baby fat still on his cheeks? He had been too thin, too, half sucked-in.

"Have you ever been to Berlin?" he asked instead. Andrew hesitated for a few seconds, clearly not expecting that, then nodded a yes. "What year? Or years?"

"2012 and '13. Never before then."

"Right. But I was just in Berlin, in 1846, and there were these two people... and they looked just like us. You and me. Except I don't think they were."

Andrew gave him a long look, saying nothing, and something about the quiet assessing look should have made him uncomfortable, but it didn't. It wasn't _judging_ so much as looking for something. He couldn't help but wonder _what_ , and whether Andrew would find it. He seemed not to, though, because he said, "Explain."

That was good enough for him. "I had just landed in Berlin when I saw this guy, and I thought he was you. And I was going to call him, see what you were doing there, but before I could get to him he started talking to this other... person. Me. It was definitely the two of us, I saw their faces, except we were both dressed for the era. White shirts, waistcoat, trousers, and you—the guy—was wearing this terrible hat. At first I thought it was just us from the future, maybe I run into you there sometime in the future, but I— _he_ —he was too young to be me. And he had this scar, it covered half his face. It was—a lot."

Andrew just watched him for a few minutes, his face unreadable behind his crossed arms. "Are you sure it was us?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. They looked like us, almost _exactly_ , but they didn't seem... right. There was definitely something off about it." He frowned, looking down at his hands—there had been something familiar about it, too, though that could easily just be him thinking of himself and Andrew. He had never seen them from an outside perspective before—had he? Berlin had given him an odd sense of having seen all of it before too, but he hadn't thought much of it, and it likely wasn't related anyway. He _had_ been to Berlin before, and it was over a century later, but what else could it be? "I could show you," he said, raising his arm.

Andrew looked at it, then uncrossed his arms, pressing one thumb to his bottom lip, as if he were about to bite it. It was an oddly arresting sight. "I don't trust your Jumps," Andrew said, gesturing first toward the bridge and then in his general direction with his free hand.

"You don't know where to go." He frowned, letting his hand drop to his side. Andrew's eyes followed the movement—and his eyes followed Andrew's eyes. They were extremely hazel.

"I don't know a lot of things."

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you saying I'm wrong?"

"I'm saying I still don't know your name." Andrew recrossed his arms, pulling his thumb away from where he had been worrying it with his teeth.

He sighed. "I don't have one to give you."

Andrew frowned, then knocked on his forehead, not quite hard enough to push him back. "Find one," he said, as if that was something easy to do.

But then, if he thought about it—

Choosing a name _had_ always been easy, because a name was just something people referred to you by. He had never put too much thought into his names, because they didn't mean anything. Since his mother—since he had started to travel alone, they had meant even less, just the false identification he was giving to whatever hobby he signed up for, sometimes not even that. He was a ghost by necessity and habit, and ghosts didn't need names. More than once, he had changed names in the same city, Dan in the traditional cooking class and Matt on the bicycle tour. He _should_ have been able to give Andrew a name with no hesitation, but since the first time, when he had said that his name was Andrew, he hadn't quite been able to keep a name when Andrew asked for it.

Something between his ribs gave a dull pang.

That wasn't the problem, though. He didn't necessarily _need_ a name, and he didn't owe Andrew that, or anything. The problem was that he didn't know _why_ he couldn't keep a name, why nothing felt like it fit. The man in Berlin occurred to him—what was _his_ name? Or did he not have one either?

"And then what?" he asked, crossing his arms.

Andrew looked away, at the hills in the distance. "And then I'll let you show me."

He scoffed, looking down at the bridge. He didn't know when he would have a name that _fit_ (whatever that meant), and it seemed ridiculous to delay finding out about something that could be important. It couldn't be nothing that there was another—what?—another _version_ of them somewhere. But when he opened his mouth to argue, Andrew looked as bored as ever, and he had a feeling that whatever he said, Andrew probably wouldn't budge. So, changing tracks, he asked, "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Andrew gave him a _look_. "Looking out at the dam. It's very nice, isn't it?"

This was the most sarcasm he had ever received from Andrew, and he couldn't help but roll his eyes even as he echoed him back, saying, "What are you doing in Thrissur?"

Andrew said, "Nothing."

He nodded slowly, then took a step backward, turning around so he could breathe out deeply, unseen. He couldn't help but be shaken still from what he had seen, the questions of _what it meant_ —but he didn't want to Jump back right now, not after he had just landed perilously close to falling off a bridge—a foot backward, and he would have landed mid-air. This was why it was dangerous to Jump as recklessly as he had, why you weren't supposed to Jump in a panic. He shoved his hands in his pockets, clenching them into fists, before shooting a look over his shoulder. "Speak any Malayalam?"

Andrew's face did something complicated where it retained his dry expression while simultaneously making clear that he was annoyed. "Don't invite yourself onto my trip because you have nothing better to do."

"If you say so," he said, and walked slowly forward to where the bridge met land. In his pockets, he clenched his hands tighter, dug his nails in. His fingers were itching, itching. He would deny it if asked, but Andrew was right: he _did_ have nothing better to do. Really, he never had anything better to do—nowhere to go, no one to meet, no _where_ or _when_ to be at. That had never troubled him before. It shouldn't now, either, but there it was.

Behind him, Andrew wasn't moving. He could tell, somehow, even though he wasn't looking. Maybe he was thinking of something; maybe he was just glad to be rid of him. When he was at the top of the stairs, Andrew said, "No. Do you?"

He turned around. In his pockets, he unclenched his hands—the itching was gone. "No, but you don't actually need it here, most everyone speaks some English." And when Andrew took a step forward, and then another, then another, he smiled.

 

—

 

**Moscow, 2001**

Moscow was some form of cold no matter what time of the year he landed there, or what year it was. It was May, but the temperature couldn't be over fifty degrees, and Damien, who didn't object to the cold usually, was having a hard time appreciating it right now, as the cool wind pushed against the hood of his jacket and tried to freeze his face. He wanted to leave the Kolomenskoye for a warmer day, but this was probably just about as warm as it got here.

He did have to admit, though, that the orchards looked good _now_ : they were in bloom, with little white flowers growing in bunches on every branch, making the trees look almost—but not quite—snowed on. More of the flowers had flaked down onto the ground, dotting the paved road and the bright grass white. Damien started to go down another path, following the bright pink flowers that grew on his left, pulling the hood of his jacket closer to his face. He continued left at the next fork in the path, and found himself just feet away from Andrew. He was looking at a statue, a woman looking down at the ground, holding her dress up badly.

"Andrew," Damien said, going over to him.

Andrew turned to look at him, then back to the statue. "You," he said, possibly in place of a name.

Damien faux-jogged forward the last few steps to the statue. There were flowers caught in the folds of the woman's stone dress, looking like they were part of the carving, but wrought in a different color.

"You keep following me," Andrew said.

"You keep showing up wherever I am. I don't know if you can really blame me," he said, which was true—except for the last time in Kerala, it had always been Andrew appearing wherever Damien was—so Damien could find him—though of course it was impossible to tell who had landed in the city first unless he asked, which he wasn't about to.

"What are you doing here?" Andrew asked minutes later, sending a quick look his way.

"Sightseeing. I've never seen the wooden palace before." He had been to Russia twice before, first when he was ten and then when he was thirteen. The second time, he and his mother had landed in the city and had found a man giving away pamphlets for tourists with terrible photos—it had been the 1990s, maybe? It was winter, the ground covered in a thick layer of white, but his mother had decided that they weren't going to leave Moscow immediately, and he had been tempted by the man saying in thick Russian, _wooden palace, white column, ice streams_. Of course, his mother had disagreed, and that was that.

Something about the cold was making it difficult to breathe, but he inhaled deep enough to hurt, and asked, "What about you?"

"Testing a theory," Andrew said, and then, turning to face him fully, "Do you speak Russian?"

Damien nodded. "Yes." They had ended up staying in Moscow for months that second time, and learning the language well enough to speak it conversationally had become necessary—as it had in dozens of other countries, more than a dozen other languages. "Do you?"

"No."

It was impossible for Damien to really imagine Jumping to foreign cities, countries, without speaking the language; it was such an essential skill to be able to converse, to know what sign said _to-let_ , to be able to ask your way through directions or pass yourself off as a resident. And it was a good disguise, too, knowing a language; in most of Europe and parts of the rest of the world, he could pass for a national, or at _least_ someone who had lived there his entire life if he knew the language well enough—he didn't have to be an American Jumper, a runaway, someone hiding.

Of course, he wasn't hiding now; as he was, he could go _anywhere_ without knowing the language, and at worst he would get a little lost, find himself unsure of where to go—but he didn't have to adjust, didn't have to metamorphose into an invisible local if he didn't want to, and he _didn't want to_.

And someone like Andrew, who Jumped simply because he wanted to, just to see things—he didn't have to do it at all. It wasn't odd that Andrew was Jumping to Moscow without speaking Russian, or going to Kerala without a basic grasp on Malayalam; surely hundreds of Jumpers did that all the time. Jumpers who had lives, and homes, and were settled in their present. Real _people_.

Andrew, seemingly unaware that Damien felt as real as a ghost or a mirage, asked, "Do you have a name yet?"

He felt something catch in his throat, and pushing past the several layers of inexplicable discomfort his answer brought, forced out, " _Yes_." If there was only a single person who knew him by a name—that was still one person more than _zero_. A name was nothing, meant nothing, but it was also an identity. Ghosts didn't have those.

Andrew gave him an impatient look, and he realized that for the _yes_ , he hadn't given him a real answer yet. Despite himself, he discarded half a dozen names in about a second—Damien was definitely not right, and every name that popped into his head felt equally bad. Aaron? _No_. Jason? _No_. Harry? _No_. Nick? _No_.

Eventually, he said, "Evan. My name is Evan." It felt like forcing a puzzle piece into the wrong slot, but he was all out of tiles and this was—had to be—the central piece, the one that would bring the rest of him together. And it was just a _name_. It didn't have to _fit_ —that didn't make any sense.

Andrew's mouth did something that looked like he had tasted something bitter, sudden and sharp. It gave him—it gave _Evan_ an uncomfortable twist somewhere in his stomach. "No."

He frowned. "What do you mean, no?"

"Your name isn't Evan."

"Are you going to tell me _your_ name is Evan now?" he asked, the best reply he could summon, but already _Evan_ was slipping away, like he had never existed. You couldn't finish a puzzle by forcing a piece in; it would never complete your picture.

Andrew didn't look particularly impressed by the response. "No, but it isn't yours either."

He deflated, nodding. "You're right. But it feels like nothing is." He wasn't sure why he said it; he owed Andrew no explanations, and definitely not this, when he didn't know what it meant himself yet. What made the names refuse to stick? Was it that they sounded wrong on his mouth, like they had been made for a different man? Was it that whatever name he gave Andrew he was going to hear back, more than once, across cities? Or was it that names were meant for people, and he didn't know if he could be called one right now?

All he could think was: _this had never been a problem for him before_.

Andrew had been quiet for minutes, possibly lost for words, and when he spoke, it sounded like he was trying to be sympathetic, nice. It grated. "Have you considered that the man you saw in Berlin had a name?"

He nodded, _yes_. "I thought about it, but I don't know if I should go back there. If I'm wrong, and that _is_ really just us, going too close could be dangerous." And the more he thought about it, _logically_ , the more it seemed that he _had to be_ wrong. It was the scar, probably; it was skewing his perspective, making him _want_ to believe that it wasn't him.

"I have excellent aim," Andrew said, holding his arm out, raising his fingers like an invitation.

He shrugged, then stepped closer and clasped one hand loosely around Andrew's wrist, just enough that they were making contact. "You still don't know my name," he said, and the sun shone brightly enough off Andrew's face and hair to make him luminescent.

Andrew said, "I'll take my chances." And he Jumped.

 

—

 

**New York City, 1956**

They landed in the middle of the twentieth century, about a hundred years and nearly four thousand miles away from where he had first seen Andrew and the other Evan.

"We're in the wrong place," he said, looking at Andrew with a frown. Andrew said nothing, signaling with his chin, and there they were, on the other side of a bar window: dressed for the period, with longer hair than they'd had in Berlin and drinks in front of them, Andrew and—him. Evan. _Not_ Evan. He looked from the Andrew he knew to the Andrew he didn't, back and forth once, then again, frowning. "You've been here before." It wasn't a question; he must have, to be able to time their landing like this. It was a show in control, in aim.

"Yes."

Evan frowned. "Why?"

Andrew gave him a _look_. "You told me you saw another _version_ of us in Berlin. I investigated."

He looked back at the two men, talking to each other quietly. They were seated at a table near the corner, _just_ visible through the window from this angle, unmistakably Andrew and himself. Not-Evan once again looked younger than Evan was now, but there was no scarring this time. He was saying something with lots of hand gestures. Andrew looked different, too. His eyes were narrowed, and even through the reflective mirror and the poor lighting of the bar inside, he looked different, more irritable somehow than his Andrew was.

It took him a second, but the difference made itself clear when he looked between the two of them again: it was because the Andrew in the bar wasn't wearing all black, the way his Andrew d—

_His Andrew?_

He chanced a glance at Andrew, who was still watching the couple behind the bar intently. He had brought his free hand up to bother at his lip. He had no way to know what Evan was thinking, but Evan wanted to banish the thought all the same, make it so he had never thought it. He could, of course, the gift of a Jumper—but Andrew had said that he didn't trust his Jumps, and he was still holding onto his wrist, a dozen tiny points of contact to keep him here.

"This isn't Berlin," he said eventually, tearing his gaze back to the men in the bar. "This isn't anywhere _near_ Berlin."

Andrew turned to look at him, the inches between them made more, somehow, from this close. "Did you think they were the only ones?"

He hadn't considered it, but Evan shook his head _no_. Andrew continued to look at him, like a challenge, or a question. Evan swallowed, turned his head away to look back at them. When the Andrew inside moved and was suddenly hidden by the wall, Evan frowned, stepped forward—and found Andrew's hand clasping his upper arm, hard.

He looked at the hand holding him back, then at Andrew. Andrew said, "Don't." Evan frowned, looking back at the bar. Andrew had moved again, and he was half in-view now, half out of it. Andrew asked, "What do you think would happen if they saw us?"

Evan looked back at him, shrugged. There was no way to know; he had never heard anything about _different versions_ of people, but he did know what running into yourself meant for a Jumper: a merge of bodies and memories. It was dangerous at best, and could trap you in a loop of your own making at worst. "Nothing good," he said after a second.

Andrew didn't answer, but loosened his grip on Evan's arm.

After a minute, Evan asked, "So what did you find?" There were _several_ differences between the two men in Berlin and the two here; in fact, the only similarity seemed to be that they were the same people. Andrew and Evan in Berlin had stood close, talking and laughing about something, clearly uncaring about who saw them. The two here had an intensity to them that Evan hadn't seen in Berlin—that could be just the nature of their current conversation, or it could be something else. There was no way to tell.

"There are others," Andrew said. Evan let out a long, low breath. "At least two apart from here and Berlin."

Evan frowned at Andrew. "Are they always together?" He didn't know if he meant together as in _in the same place_ , or together as in _a couple_. Andrew's expression, which read like _are you an idiot_ , was answer enough: _yes_ , but yes to which question? He looked back at Not-Evan, then asked, "Did you get a name?"

Andrew said, "In Mumbai and Johannesburg, _he_ was called Andrew." Which meant he didn't know about here—but if he had to guess, Evan would say he'd respond to Andrew here, too.

"And me—him?"

"He was called Neil."

 

—

 

**Belfast, 1710**

Finding Andrew and Neil was not as simple as he had assumed it would be, when Andrew told him there were others. This was, in _part_ , because he had no idea how to look. Berlin had been an accident—before then, he had never tried to Jump to someone.

Most of what he knew about Jumping he had learned from his mother, and her lessons had never been about trying to _find_ anyone. Places, times, certainly. They had spent countless hours improving and perfecting his aim. He knew to Jump back to the precise moment he wanted to erase, how to have never been to a city or wipe away weeks or months of time, for all the good that had done him when it mattered. His measurement of time was an ingrained sense; every second he was aware of it passing. But his mother's rules and lessons had always been about going _away_. None of them included trying to go _to_ anyone.

Of course, there had never been anyone for him to find. His mother would never have Jumped away from a place without him, and he knew better than to do that.

He frowned, staring down at the sun-beaten wood of the old boat he had landed on, in the heart of sixteenth century Oman. It shouldn't have been as difficult to find them as it was proving, either. He had never Jumped _to_ someone before, but if Andrew, who went to Russia without knowing Russian because he _could_ , had a way of finding not one but _several_ versions of them, then so could he.

But _how_?

For that matter, how had Andrew found them? Did he have experience looking for people? Had he gotten lucky? But no—nothing about the way Andrew had said _investigated_ had implied any amount of luck involved. Had he simply Jumped and Jumped and Jumped until he found them, and then Jumped some more until he found another pair, another pair? And _why_? He had said himself that he didn't trust him, didn't even know his name—what had compelled Andrew to look for them on _his_ word?

A gust of wind rocked the boat, and he shuddered. _Something familiar_.

What had he forgotten?

He stood up, and tried to imagine how someone would Jump toward a _person_ , not a place or time. He had managed it once, on the dam in Kerala. But that had been a dangerous landing, and he didn't intend to find his death looking for Andrew and Neil.

But—he had no other way.

He sighed and steadied himself as well as he could on the boat, readied his hand, and thought of them. Andrew, and—Neil. Andrew and _him_. Andrew and Not-Evan, and Not-Damien, and Not-Jack. _Neil_. It was shockingly close to the one name he hadn't known in a decade. If he closed his eyes, he could picture it, surprisingly clear: the poorly lit bar corner, a table between them doing nothing to make the conversation less intimate, words punctuated by gestures, irritability written on his face. And just as clearly, a bright Berlin morning, two men at the edge of a crowd, hand brushing sleeve, a bright scar, long hair, blond like a beacon.

And the _feeling_ when he saw them, something that was not panic, not confusion, not horror, not recognition—and all of them at once.

He snapped his fingers.

When he opened his eyes, he was still staring at a dock, and for a second before he reoriented himself, he thought the Jump had failed. But it hadn't; he _was_ still at a port, but over a century and a continent away, in Belfast. He was on steady land this time, which was fortunate, and had landed in the middle of a crowd, which was not as much. There was no way to know if Andrew and Neil were here or not—unless he looked.

It was the wish _not_ to look that solidified his decision, and he swiveled around, surveying the crowd of sailors making for their ships and boats. On instinct, he went against the crowd instead of with it, and found himself standing behind a large warehouse near the wharf, looking over the passing people, half-certain he wasn't going to find them, or anyone, here.

And then, materializing as suddenly as though they too had Jumped here, there they were: Andrew and him. Neil.

He watched as the two of them made their way out of the harbor, occasionally waving hellos and goodbyes to people as they passed, Neil more than Andrew. Once they got close enough to the main, he began to follow them, keeping far enough behind that they wouldn't notice it—and it wasn't exactly difficult to become a stranger in this crowd, but if Maybe-Neil was anything like he was, he would have one eye over his shoulder—but close enough that he didn't lose them before he found a way to discreetly get close enough to, at least, hear a name.

That was what he was here for, after all: to see what his Andrew had seen, hear what he had heard. It wasn't that he didn't believe what Andrew had told him, because he did—Andrew was too measured with his words to be a liar—and in any case Andrew had no reason to tell him anything but the truth. But seeing was believing, and maybe, _maybe_ , was also an answer.

He followed them out of the crowd and further down the harbor, where both the people and the number of ships and boats docked thinned. When there were too few people to provide any kind of cover, he pulled his coat around himself and its collar up to cover the lower half of his face. It was an anachronism, but he'd rather risk that than them seeing his face. It didn't look as though it would matter much, though; neither of them had looked back to see if anyone was following them. Inexplicably, this was making him frown.

This Andrew and this Neil were both young, that much was clear, even compared to Berlin. He knew his own face, and he couldn't have been any older than seventeen; Andrew was more difficult to gauge, but didn't look much older. They both had far longer hair than they'd had in New York or Berlin, pulled back and tied. They were dressed similarly to each other and to most of the others they had passed, sailors largely. And, somehow—they were _both_ talking.

He couldn't tell what they were saying, but this conversation was charged entirely differently to the two he had seen before. It was far lighter than New York, and somehow also _different_ to the glimpse he had caught of them in Berlin. He heard Andrew say something that made Neil laugh, easy, and he sped up, lowering his head but moving closer, all the better to eavesdrop.

This was what he was here for.

He thought of his question in New York: _are they always together_ , and Andrew's non-answer of an answer. The two people he saw in front of him did not look like they were _together_. After he got their names, he might find his Andrew, bring him here—if nothing else, to create a better understanding of what was going on here. After all, it involved them. And if Andrew could trust him enough to let him latch onto his own Jump, he could extend that trust a little further.

"Matt says you have the voice of an angel, and the look of one," Neil was saying in lilting Irish. "You should have seen Kevin's face." Twenty feet behind, he looked up a little, just enough to catch a glimpse of their faces. The look of horror Andrew was wearing was the most expressive he had ever seen him. It was disorienting, like looking in a mirror and seeing it move when you weren't—which, he supposed, was a little like what he was doing. Andrew and Maybe-Neil, reflections of his Andrew and himself, but not. "Yeah, that's pretty close."

"Do you spend all your time gossiping?"

"Like fishwives?" Neil quipped. Despite himself, his own lip quirked to it, and he stepped forward once more to hear better—then, realizing what he was doing, forced himself to slow to their pace. Much more and he'd be ahead of them soon. They seemed to be going to a mammoth of a ship, rocking gently in place at the very end of the wharf.

"Like you have nothing better to do," Andrew said.

"Us lowly sailors like to talk as we work," Neil said, sloping a grin Andrew's way. It sat strange on his face for the second it was there and gone—not because it wasn't real, but because it was. His throat caught. _Genuine good humor_ ; he didn't know if that was what happiness looked like on his own face, because he wasn't sure if he remembered it.

He had not been in a bad way, most of the time. He had never had time to be sad, or angry, or miserable, even as a Jumper. Terror, he had known and abandoned. He had, despite himself, grown past grief. But whether he had been _happy_ or not had never mattered—he didn't think he knew how to tell. What did being happy feel like? What did it look like, on him?

And did it look like that?

"We work more than you do when you're moored," Neil said. It seemed oddly disjointed; Andrew had said something, and it must have been lower than the rest, because he had missed it entirely. Andrew's look of horror had faded to a simple creased forehead, but there was no irritation in it. He sped up a little to catch up with them—when had he fallen behind?—and frowned when instead of turning toward the ship, they moved past to the end of the dock.

"Which is never long enough," Andrew responded. There were no gaps; their conversation flowed impossibly smooth, like a practiced dialogue. Watching it felt more than a little like watching a tennis match.

"Liar," Neil said. Andrew quirked an eyebrow, sitting down, and Neil followed.

Less than twenty paces behind them, he ducked behind the ship and took two steps forward before turning to look at them over the corner. They were still entirely absorbed in themselves, a private circle of them—they hadn't noticed him once. It felt worse to watch these two young men _chat_ than it had been to see the intensity of the men in the bar. Their conversation was in no way private—they didn't lower their voices—and yet, he couldn't have felt more like an outsider than if he had pressed his ear to the bar window.

He reminded himself: _this is what you are here for_.

" _You_ like working," Neil said.

Andrew hummed under his breath before saying, "Must be why I don't gossip while I do."

"That's because half the crew is terrified of you, and you hate the rest of them," Neil said. Andrew gave him a cool look, which was almost reassuring in its lack of feeling, its familiarity. " _I_ like telling my _friends_ about you."

"You can _tell_ Matt to keep his opinion to himself," Andrew said.

Neil leaned back on his hands, smiling again now. "He's right, though. You _do_ have the voice of an angel, though you've the hands of a—"

"Deckhand?"

Neil's grin was all teeth. "Devil. And the mouth of one."

Andrew just said, "Neil." It felt like something dislodging. And just like that, the tone had changed—even he could tell, though Neil was still smiling widely, all teeth on display. He would look dangerous, but he only looked wild, and not unhappy at all. Andrew wasn't smiling, but it did nothing to upset the balance of their—something.

Neil said, "Andrew." Something about the single word sent a sharp pang through his chest, like something piercing his lungs.

_This was what he was here for—_ but he had heard their names. Andrew and Neil. And he had seen more than he had intended to, or planned to. He had already lost all intention of bringing his Andrew here, along with the idea that those two were _friends_.

He ducked away behind the ship again, pressed one palm to its side. It felt like it was rocking under him, created the dizzying illusion that he was the one moving, not it. A low voice carried over the side of the ship; Neil. He recognized his own voice—not like that, not sounding like it did now, but he did.

He shook his head, removed his hand from the ship, and Jumped.

 

—

 

**Arizona, 1903**

Andrew found him sitting on a ledge in the Grand Canyon, looking at nothing in particular. He had been there for hours (four, and thirty-one minutes, and fifteen seconds, sixteen, seventeen), staring out at the impossible vastness of the canyon. It was 1903, and just isolated enough that it felt like he was the only one in the world.

When he heard footsteps behind him, he knew who it was. "Andrew," he said lightly, not looking back. "Following me again?"

Andrew stood next to him for a second, looking down at him, past him, at the red rock that marked this part of the canyon. He didn't deign this worthy of a reply, evidently, because all he said was: "What are you doing here?"

He smiled. That was the question of the hour, wasn't it? "Nothing," he said, though it wasn't exactly true anymore. Then, "Testing a theory."

He hadn't planned this, exactly—the theory was really just a half-formed question. He had simply wondered, hours ago, if Andrew would appear if he simply waited long enough. And he had. In Cairo, Pretoria, Hanoi, Moscow—and now here. Who was being pulled to whom?

Andrew stared down at him, blank-faced. It was almost nice, and colored what he had seen in Belfast even stranger. Andrew, but not Andrew.

Andrew asked, "Conclusion?"

He looked away from Andrew, back at the nothing. "I was right, but I don't know what it means." He waited, not looking back up at him, but Andrew said nothing. After several moments of this, he sat down next to him, legs crossed. Andrew seemed content to sit in silence, or maybe to wait for him to speak, so he asked, "Do you think cattle trails passed through here?"

Andrew gave him a nonplussed look. "Is this for your theory?"

"No. Cattle trails. Cowboys. Do you think they crossed the Grand Canyon?"

Andrew's expression cleared. "You found more of them."

He nodded, looking at where he had intertwined his fingers on his lap. After Belfast, he hadn't intended to look, but he had chanced upon them all the same. The luck of the draw, maybe. First on the Chisholm trail in 1883, two cowboys heading north for a cattle drive, and then in Bath in 1812, at an assembly room. Each time he had only stayed long enough to hear a _Neil_ , but it had been too much all the same. Watching them was painful for a reason he couldn't comprehend.

It was also familiar.

Andrew asked, "What did you find?"

He frowned, then pulled his legs up and turned to face Andrew. "Andrew and Neil. I'll tell you if you tell me."

"In the name of fairness?"

He rolled his eyes, but nodded. "If that's what you want to call it." He just wanted to know more—he wanted to know everything. It felt like the more he knew, the closer he would get to unlocking an answer, some mysterious explanation that would set the world right again, un-tilt it. "First, Andrew and Neil in Belfast, 1710. They were sailors. Maybe seventeen and eighteen."

"Andrew and Neil in Johannesburg, 1983. They were in a club."

"Andrew and Neil in Bath. 1812. They were at an assembly room." He frowned. "I think Andrew had a fiancée."

"Andrew and Neil in Mumbai, 1794. They were both soldiers. Andrew had a sister."

He raised an eyebrow. "Andrew and Neil on a cattle trail, somewhere in Oklahoma. 1883. They were cowboys." He couldn't help but let out a hint of a smile at the image. They had even worn the hats. "Andrew had a sister." He looked at Andrew in question. "Do _you_ have a sister?"

"No. Have you ever been to Dubai?"

He frowned at the non-sequitur, but when Andrew offered no explanation, he nodded. "Once. I was... thirteen?"

"A thirteen year-old Jumping across continents on his own?"

He shook his head. "Who said I was alone?" He was struck for a second by the oddness of the question—at thirteen, he had been able to Jump across continents easily, though he had rarely done it. But of course, he had been trained by exacting tutors: his mother, and necessity. Most thirteen year-olds probably couldn't Jump across continents unsupervised. If what he remembered of old news articles his official teachers had shown him was true, some _adults_ couldn't Jump across continents without landing badly, or in parts, or not at all.

Andrew looked at him for five seconds, then said, "What year was it?"

"1994."

Andrew said nothing, looking out past him at nothing in specific. "What was your theory?"

He hummed, then leaned back on his hands, looking up at the darkening sky. Somewhere behind Andrew, the sun was setting on the canyon, painting everything scarlet and gold and everything in between. "Have you been here before?" Andrew looked irritated, even if he wasn't so much as frowning. "It's for the theory," he clarified, but the irritation did not fade. "Humor me."

"Yes. I was nine. We went to the viewing area." His frown-free brows said: _answer the question_ , and the line of his mouth said _preferably fast_.

He looked back out to the canyon. "You asked me what I was doing here. I was doing nothing. I hadn't intended to come here, I just Jumped, and landed here. Do you ever do that?"

Andrew said, voice low, like he was thinking, "Not often."

He looked Andrew in the eye. Everything about Andrew was tense right now, and it reflected in his gaze, burning in this light. "What were you doing in Russia?"

Andrew looked like he wanted to say something, but didn't know how. "Testing a theory, remember?"

He quirked his lips. "Conclusion?"

Andrew said, "Yes."

"But you don't know what it means," he prompted, leaning forward now. Andrew stopped, then nodded. "Me neither."

"So you've said." It was half-mocking, half-genuine, half-distracted. But he could tell that Andrew was just as confused by these _events_ as he was—the fact that Andrew had _investigated_ when he had decided to leave it alone was proof enough. But they needed to be seeing the same things here, or they wouldn't find any answers.

"So we... _run into each other_ when either of us Jumps aimlessly."

"Or when you come looking."

He had to admit that one, because he _had_. But it had only been the once, and he would attribute it more to thinking of Andrew just at the second that he Jumped, not to this. It had been, in a way, like aiming for him. "That was a unique situation."

Andrew asked, "What were you doing in Berlin?"

He smiled. It was what he had been getting at himself—especially as he hadn't been _looking_ when he landed in Oklahoma or Bath, either. He had just been thinking of them. It was possible it had nothing to do with that, or it could have everything to do with it. "Nothing. How did you find the men in New York?"

"I Jumped. Why is this so important to you?"

He blinked. He hadn't expected that one. "That's not an answer. Why did you show me New York?" Andrew had known the name when they had landed, and in any case they had been too far away, behind a window and across a street; they had heard nothing, definitely not a name. Andrew could simply have told him in Russia what he had seen.

Andrew just said, "That isn't one either."

He looked away. "Call it curiosity." It wasn't entirely a lie—he _was_ curious to know what was going on. Why he and Andrew had met each other so often, why _Neil_ and Andrew—the other Andrews—met so often.

But that wasn't it. It wasn't even entirely about the recognition that followed him everywhere he went, everywhere he saw Andrew and Neil. It was the fact that they all had a name, _one name_ , when he had none. It was that he could never stay in one place longer than a few weeks—but the thought of Jumping sometimes made him dizzy still. It was that he couldn't think of California without wanting to be sick, even _now_ , when he could think of his mother without something overpowering clawing up his throat. It was that Andrew knew Neil—no one knew him.

And—

And the man, the _boy_ on the dock had laughed without compunction. His face hurt just thinking about it, but Neil didn't need to _think_. Neil waved to people as he passed and talked about his friends and mocked his work. Neil complained about wrangling cows into the drive and bad food and bad pay. Neil talked about a brother and a London house and visiting Winsford _if he could_.

_He_ could go anywhere he wanted, any time he wanted. The gift of a Jumper.

"No," Andrew said.

"No," he agreed, and didn't clarify. "So, why did you take me to New York?"

"Seeing is believing."

 

—

 

**Charleston, 2005**

Andrew took him to Dubai, to a spot under the Burj Khalifa, just as the fountain show began. It should have been nothing—but it wasn't, not quite. There was a flicker of familiarity as the light show that accompanied the fountains started, the colorful lights dancing across the water to make it red, blue, green.

He took Andrew to a garden near Vienne, empty but for birds and insects, and his throat caught up once again. It was as though he was in two places at once, seeing something that wasn't there—but that was impossible. The _known_ was like an itch in the middle of his back, just out of reach. He could smell something, or taste something, or see something, but there was nothing to smell or taste or see. In the dark, Andrew's pale skin and hair was all gray, and he started.

"We've never met at night before," he said, and it was a question when it shouldn't have been.

Andrew answered all the same. "No."

Andrew took him to a farm in Mississippi, which did nothing for him, and Port Sultan Qaboos meant nothing to Andrew, but they both started when he Jumped blind and landed near the port of Rijeka.

They stopped in Charleston, where he landed them in his apartment, 2005. Andrew looked around the place with not _quite_ disdain, but something close enough. "I don't know this place," he said, which—did not _quite_ answer a question, but did something like it. He _did_ , he had realized, when he was thinking about it in the Grand Canyon. He had felt the air of familiarity in too many places, too many times to list or remember them all, but he _did_ remember the hints of memories that had been scattered through the city. He hadn't paid attention to them the first time around, probably hadn't been in any state of mind to, but _now_.

"I do," he said. Andrew gave him a look, and he frowned. "No, I mean—I've been here before. Before I even bought this place. I didn't know why at the time." Andrew seemed to accept this, because he unlatched his hand, and began to look around. He watched for a second as Andrew approached the couch, as slowly as if it might grow mold, then shook himself and moved to the kitchen, digging out canned soup and two plastic spoons. When he returned, Andrew was sitting on the couch, and had a cigarette out.

"No," he said immediately, then blinked. "I mean—I don't want the smell of smoke here. The neighbors."

Andrew put away the cigarette and peered up at him like he was processing something. "You don't like smoke," he said slowly. Under the weight of Andrew's heavy gaze, he nodded. Andrew must have sensed that he was uncomfortable around this, because he said, "Soup?"

"Would you prefer beans?"

Andrew gave him a look, then waited as he took a seat and handed Andrew a tin. The soup smelled terrible, but he hadn't eaten anything in thirteen hours, and had Jumped enough to exhaust anyone, even himself. Andrew put his tin away without looking at it.

"What do you remember about this place?"

He shrugged. "Nothing," he said. He didn't _remember_ anything about anywhere—but everywhere reminded him of something. "Everything," he said, when Andrew stared at him pointedly. "It made no sense. I thought I was Jumping back every few days, because I couldn't tell. It was," he paused to chew and swallow past a sudden lump in his throat, "not a good time."

Andrew frowned, then looked around, as though willing himself to be reminded of something. He stood up, and left the room, in the direction of the bedroom. When he emerged, his expression was the same as when he had left. "I haven't been here before."

"You haven't," he said. "How do _you_ tell?"

Andrew hesitated for just a second. "It tastes like the soup you're eating."

He nodded slowly. It wasn't the same for him—not a taste, just the overwhelming feeling of _you know this_. "For me, it feels like being reminded of something at the edge of your memory, but you can never reach it. I don't know how to describe it. Earlier it was faint enough to ignore, but it's gotten stronger. Now it feels like... forgetting something."

Andrew sat down, looking pointedly at the peeling striped wallpaper. "That too. And I'm not in the habit of forgetting things."

He raised an eyebrow, but Andrew said nothing. He was right, though—the sensation was disorienting. It wasn't like the tangled threads of memory that California had become, like a series of timelines jumbled together—it was like seeing the marks of stitches undone. _A stitch in time_.

The problem was that he would never remember, and neither would Andrew. Because you could remember something you had forgotten in time, but you couldn't remember what had never happened. They might be able to put together the pieces if they tried hard enough, but they would never know for sure. And they would certainly never remember what they had erased, and why.

There were not many laws against interfering with one's own timeline, but it was not highly recommended. There were cautionary tales of Jumpers assaulted by déjà vu strong enough to make their sense of timelines collapse, of Jumpers who had gotten themselves caught in inescapable loops. He and his mother had erased enough things to shock an ordinary Jumper, probably, but even then they had always been careful. The biggest, or most significant, erasure he had ever attempted—that he remembered—was with his mother's death.

And look how well that had worked.

So what would prompt him and Andrew to wipe away something on this scale?

"Why did we do it?" he asked, leaning forward. "All those places—that can't have been about an hour, or a day. It had to have been weeks, or more. What made us erase so _much_?"

Andrew asked, "Does it have to do with them?"

He paused. "It might." He had been seeing the two things as separate: on one hand, the echoes he felt around Andrew, and sometimes not around him—on the other, several pairs of Andrew and him, Andrew and _Neil_ , scattered through time. "But how do they connect?"

"And how do they connect to each other?" Andrew asked, sounding frustrated in a way he wouldn't have associated with him. Maybe it was the impossibility of the problem, or the distance of the answer.

He snorted. "Reincarnation? Echoes through time? Different people who just look like us?" Andrew looked annoyed, and not in the mood for flippancy, so he said, "Were there any other people who appeared more than once? Do you know anyone called Allison?"

Andrew looked irritated. "No. My brother's name is Aaron. Do you have a cousin called Dan?"

He frowned. "There were no Aarons. And I don't have any cousins."

"This is going nowhere," Andrew said, words at odds with his flat tone.

He frowned, then said, "Their names could be different." Except, of course, Andrew's sister had been called Allison twice, and their names never changed. And Andrew's name was Andrew even now... but his wasn't Neil.

Andrew leaned forward, narrowed his eyes. "Have you ever had a name?"

There was no point in lying, not when they were both looking for the same thing. "Yes," he said, "but never Neil."

Andrew asked, "Why not now?"

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, because he didn't know what to say. He _could_ be Neil—names didn't have meaning—except this one did. And he wasn't the man in Bath, or the boy in Belfast, or the man in Oklahoma.

And he wanted—

What did he want?

He said, "The last person who called me by a real name is dead." It was not the answer to Andrew's question. It was not even an answer to his own. It was just a fact, and a fact that, after over a year of being different people—or wearing masks that had different names—hadn't changed. And would, maybe, never change. "I don't know how to be real for anyone else."

Andrew said, "I know you. You're more real than they are."

He looked up, raised an eyebrow. He thought his mouth was doing something like smiling, but it was difficult to be sure. His whole face hurt. "Am I?"

 

—

 

**Gdańsk, 1956**

It was a bad landing—it was dark, for one, and he seemed to have landed on something slippery. He was in Gdańsk, in what looked like a warehouse of some sort. There was no moon, and the lights had been dimmed, or definitely dimmed enough that he could barely see. Groping for something for reference, he straightened, placing one hand on a large, textured crate-wall.

There were voices coming from beyond the crate, and he frowned and headed toward those, as silent as he could be. And there, finally, was the first light he had seen since he had landed here. It was dim, but it illuminated the two men talking enough for their faces to be clear, at least.

He stopped, pulled back so he couldn't see them, then looked once again.

The first was him—well, Neil. The second was his uncle, Stuart Hatford.

Except that it was 1956, and uncle Stuart was not a Jumper. His mother would have told him—probably. She had only been to him once, when they had first run away, but it had proven unsafe to stay in the same time for long, and they hadn't returned. Admittedly, his memory of his face had faded with time, but he was certain—this was Stuart Hatford.

In 1956. Talking to him.

He frowned as he tried to keep up with what they were saying. It was in Polish, and all so fast that his bare understanding of the language was struggling, but he could pick up bits and pieces and connect them.

"You must remember not to tell anyone on the ship. They all believe you are my son."

Neil said, "Yes, Uncle."

"Even in America you cannot tell anyone the truth. You have to remember this, or everything your mother did was a waste." He frowned, squinting at Neil. He was _going_ to America. It was 1956. The lack of light made it difficult, but as far as he could tell, this was the man Andrew had shown him in New York, a few months prior to that day.

"Yes, Uncle."

"I have arranged for everything. You will be safe as long as you remember to do everything as we planned."

"I remember everything," Neil replied, with the sort of irritation that meant they had probably discussed this already. He recognized it from his own conversations with his mother—conversations that had, often, gone similarly to this one.

"Good. And, remember the name. You cannot use your true name there. Even an ocean away your father will not stop looking," Stuart said, and for the first time, Neil looked afraid. Behind the crate, he pressed his hand into the wall, pressing his lips together. If Neil's father was anything like his own, he wouldn't stop looking over all of time. An ocean was nothing.

"I will remember, Uncle," Neil said.

"Who will you be in America?" Stuart insisted, frowning deeply.

Neil said, in halting English, "I will be Neil Josten, who lives in New York."

Everything halted, just for a second.

He had never considered that Neil—the Neils he had seen could have _not_ been Neil when they were born. They had felt like one entity, apart from him—they were all the same, and he wasn't like them, in that he had never been Neil. In that they were all real people. Except: at one point, this Neil hadn't been, either. He had been someone else. He had lived somewhere else.

And when he arrived in New York, he became Neil Josten. Somehow, he went from this to the man he had seen in the bar that day, talking enthusiastically to Andrew.

Andrew had said: _you're more real than they are_. He wasn't—but he looked at Neil, and he thought he could be.

Stuart and Neil were talking in rapid Polish now, too fast for him to keep up with, but he strained to listen all the same. He leaned forward, pressing a hand to the crate, and let out a sharp breath when his foot slipped, skidding before he stopped it. Stuart turned around, looking around suspiciously. "Who's there!" he barked out in Polish, then turned and told Neil to hurry.

He knew what he would look like—either impossible, because Neil was right there, or his father. And, maybe more importantly: he didn't want to risk being seen. What happened if you saw two of someone? He cursed and took several steps back, further into shadow. When Stuart crossed around the crate all the same, looking around curiously, he hoped for the best, and snapped his fingers.

 

—

 

_"If you could go anywhere, where would you go?"_

_"A rock in the German Confederation. Where would you go?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"So don't go."_

 

_—_

 

**Sankt Goarshausen, 1849**

Andrew was the one who landed them there, two feet away from the river. It was 1849, and they were near a rock in Germany, and there was no one around as far as he could see. Andrew shot him a filthy look as he swayed on the spot and nearly pulled them both into the water, then pulled the both of them back into shadow.

He looked up at the rising rock behind them, at the gleaming blue water, still and smooth. Across the river, he could see the rising of a hamlet town. There was an audible murmur that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere; for a moment, he could swear it sounded like singing. Everything about this place was a reminder—if he had felt a tingle in Dubai, this was a full-body shiver.

"Where are we?" he asked, looking around.

"The Lorelei. Germany. Have you heard of the poem, _Die Lorelei_?" He shook his head _no_ , and Andrew turned to face the water. "It's about this place."

"How did you find it?" he asked, still watching the steep incline of the Lorelei. Andrew followed his gaze, then frowned.

"I was looking for the Andrew and Neil you saw in Berlin, but I found this place instead."

He looked from the Lorelei to Andrew and back, then asked, "They're coming here?"

"Not here," Andrew said, then turned him to face the other side of the river. And there they were—far enough that they were little more than heads and bodies, faces invisible in the distance. The scarring wasn't visible from here, but he knew it was there. They were not holding hands, but they were standing close enough that they might be. It didn't matter; they didn't need to be holding hands for him to know that they were together.

He looked at Andrew, then at his own hand, which Andrew had let go of on landing. Evidently he trusted him enough not to Jump away now.

"That's them," he said. "Have you been here before? Before you found it, I mean." He definitely had, and probably more than once, if the intensity of the familiarity signified anything.

Andrew nodded. "Yes." A pause, and then, "I wasn't Jumping aimlessly when I landed here. I was thinking of Berlin." That didn't necessarily mean anything; aim was tricky, and you could slip and land elsewhere. It required practice. But Andrew had landed here, a place relevant to Andrew and Neil, when he had intended to go _somewhere else_.

"It could be that you slipped," he said, frowning.

Andrew said, "Or it could not." He looked at Neil, then back at him, then at Neil again. He seemed to be deciding something, and the only thing to do was wait. Finally, he said, "Southampton wasn't the first time we met."

He frowned. "What?"

"We have met before," Andrew said.

He shook his head. "When?" He didn't remember it—if it was immediately after his mother died, he _wouldn't_ remember it, but that seemed too insignificant for the sudden mention.

"Once. In California. I was seven or eight, when you appeared in front of my foster home." When he frowned, remembering nothing, Andrew continued, "You were probably no older."

He stared. "You were the kid who accused me of being a Jumper."

Andrew looked irritated. "Yes. And you didn't intend to Jump to my house." He nodded. He had been seven, maybe eight, before he and his mother had run away. He had Jumped across the country to see an earthquake, and landed in the wrong year, and possibly the wrong place—on Andrew's street.

"That was a very long time ago. I'd forgotten all about it," he said.

Andrew said, "I don't forget things." And then, with an unexpected snort, "You didn't tell me your name then, either."

"I don't think it was for the same reason, then," he said, though it was strange that he hadn't.

Andrew looked back at the Neil on the other side of the river. He was, maybe, talking to his Andrew, something subdued. "What makes him any more real than you?" he asked, sending a brief glance his way.

He looked at Neil. If he was like the Neil in Belfast or the Neil in Bath, he had friends. He had a family, maybe. He had responsibilities, and people who knew him, and he was tied down. And he had none of those things—wasn't sure he _wanted_ them—but he could. And he could have a name, and at least one person who would know it.

That was, at least, a place to start.

_What did he want?_

"I don't know," he said. "And I don't think I can answer any of your other questions, either, because I don't know myself, and we may never find out. But I do know one thing. My name."

Andrew looked at him, eyebrows raised.

"See, I've chosen so many names for myself. Hundreds, maybe, and I didn't think they mattered. But they did, more than I thought. Because a name means someone knows you, and it... makes you real. Like they are." He waved a hand at the men on the other side of the river without looking at them. Andrew didn't, either; he was watching him, quiet, intent. He did not look like he wanted to object, which was good—he didn't think he would be able to keep going if Andrew stopped him, even just to say what he had said the other day. _You could be_. "And I think I was resisting because I didn't know how to be, or didn't want to, or wasn't ready. But I'll never be ready. I just have to choose."

Andrew said, "And have you?"

Neil nodded in response. He took a step forward, and offered Andrew a hand—not a wrist to hold, but a shake, like meeting someone for the first time.

"Please," he said, "call me Neil."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. that's that.
> 
> a big ole thanks to everyone who's kudos'ed, commented, or even just liked or reblogged the posts about this on tumblr! y'all have improved my day 100% of the time  
> and, also, 200000000 thanks to etra aka coldsaturn, my amazing beta without whom, as i've said before and will probably say again, i would _not_ have been able to write this! you're amazing! 
> 
> find me on tumblr at neilexysts if you want to scream at me about this!

**Author's Note:**

> a little clarification: there are only 2 rules to time travel in this fic, really!  
> 1\. you can't see your future  
> 2\. you can't remember something that never happened, so a timeline you've jumped away from is one that everyone forgets, including you  
> hope this is easy enough to keep track of, and i hope you're all as excited as i am for what's coming next!
> 
> find me on tumblr at [neilexysts](http://neilexysts.tumblr.com/)


End file.
